


Buttoned Up

by nerdrumple



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, And other fun sexy things, Body Image, F/M, Masturbation, Nothing wrong with layers, This isn't exactly a makeover story so don't expect a montage or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10028747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdrumple/pseuds/nerdrumple
Summary: Though her name suggests otherwise, Belle has never felt beautiful. She’s more comfortable hiding herself inside mountains of sweaters and ankle-skimming skirts. But when Mr. Gold catches her in an intimate act, he decides to release Belle from her many layers. Best Comfort TEA 2018 :)





	1. Getting Caught

**Author's Note:**

> [Ultimatefan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultimatefan/pseuds/Ultimatefan) had a sad, so I'm posting this to give her a happy.

_Dowdy_ , she thought.  _I’m dowdy._

The protagonist of the novel she was reading certainly wasn’t dowdy. She was lithe and tall and allowed the hero to suckle her breasts and work his hand between her thighs. More importantly, she did so without shame,  _no_ , she took pride in the act! She took what she wanted from her lover, and he gave with gratitude for such allowance.

The hero of the novel was of conventional attractiveness, that much could be surmised from the description. Describing him as a masculine rake, the author had given scruff to his face, something the protagonist commented on often. Belle could respect that bit of sexual desire, even if it wasn’t one she shared.

She’d read about heroes like this before, evil in easy ways, pirates or thieves or highwaymen, nothing more diabolical than wanting to line their pockets with coin. Their villainy usually ended in early chapters, once a heroine had won their heart and their priorities shifted. Belle could appreciate that, and had gobbled up many a story with that very premise.

But this particular novel contained a villain that she found far more appealing than the hero. Who knew a description of maniacal, tittering giggles could capture her so fully? A wizard instead of a knight! Where the hero was muscled, the villain was wiry. Where the hero was windswept and buccaneered, the villain was sharp-nosed and leathered, often flamboyantly. Who wanted scruff when one could have such an appealing bit of androgyny?

The barbs exchanged between heroine and villain were far more engrossing than the flirtations between heroine and hero, and Belle found herself rereading their dialogue again and again. A particular description of the way the villain eyed the heroine unawares as she entered his lair especially caught Belle’s attention. Was this the intent of the author, to give her a romantic lead in the villain all along?

The more she read on, the more it was clear that that wasn’t the direction the author was headed, much to Belle’s disappointment. She flipped ahead through the pages to confirm as much, breaking her own rule of skipping ahead. It made the book feel stale, suddenly, and left Belle feeling empty and bereft.

This was what her imagination was for, wasn’t it? She skipped back to the part where the hero was loving the protagonist for the first time, and pictured the villain instead. It was  _his_  mouth suckling her breasts,  _his_  fingers entering her with relish.

Belle wasn’t normally one to masturbate at work. She usually kept this act up in her apartment above the library tucked safely beneath the covers. But the floor was empty of patrons, it was the lull of her lunch hour, and this book, rewritten in her head, was  _terribly_ good.

_Dowdy,_  the word came again, and she closed the door. The weight of her reality was desperate to come down on her, but she was determined to keep it at bay. Her reflection in the black of her computer screen showed a woman wrapped from head to toe in sweater, sweater, skirt, tights, glasses,  _dowdy_ , but she could close her eyes and picture anything she wanted. The sensuality she craved was there, if she sought after it, and if she pulled herself deep enough into the fantasy, then she could be enough as well.

So here she was now, rocking back and forth in her flimsy metal folding chair, in her backroom, on a quaint Tuesday afternoon.

Her scratchy wool skirt was bunched up around her thighs from her efforts, hand sunk inside her cotton panties as she read and reread the passage, wanting so much to be the heroine with the villain between her legs. Goodness, what would he think of her? She was nothing like the woman he longed for, radiant in countenance with flowing locks and skimpy silks. Belle’s own panties were a displeasing off-white from so many washes. She didn’t have the money for anything nicer, nor the confidence to purchase it.

She’d had to pull down her tights for the act, and they gathered unattractively at her ankles. She’d kicked off her shoes, where they lay ignored under her desk chair. The bulk of her sweaters and blouse kept getting in the way, pulling her out of the fantasy, ruining her chance at achieving orgasm.  _Just read the words,_  she told herself, rereading the passage where the protagonist guided the hero’s fingers inside her.  _Yes, do it in time with the words,_  she thought, pulling her hand from herself and then sinking back in in time with the description. When the hero, no,  _villain_ , rocked inside his mistress, Belle rocked inside herself.  _Yes_ , there it was,  _pretend he’s fucking you with his hand, and you’ll get there_.

Her glasses slipped down her nose again, the sweat that had beaded along her face allowing for the distraction. She reached up to reposition them, using the hand that occupied her cunt so her other hand could keep place in her book. As she pushed her glasses back up, a sticky line of her arousal smudged the frame. She winced at herself, terribly embarrassed, terribly ashamed.

_Just close your eyes_ , she thought, when the door to the backroom opened.

Mr. Gold stood in front of her, his expectant face giving way to surprise. She was of no mind to readjust herself, she simply froze, her face turning beet red and her book nearly slipping from her hand. 

He didn’t speak, simply gaped, and her panting was the only sound in the room.

_Get out!_

_Don’t you know how to knock?_

_This area is private!_

_Why didn’t I lock the door?_

Her mind raced with accusations and admonitions, but she couldn't speak, could only fall further into humiliation.

He closed his mouth slowly, then the door behind him, softly, just as she had earlier. He carried two books, and placed them gently now on the desk next to her computer. The rent check, which he was undoubtedly there to collect, lay beside her keyboard in a crisp white envelope that he fetched quietly, smoothing it inside his jacket with a practiced hand.

She blinked at him owlishly, and several things started to click into place at once. His wiry frame, his sharp nose, his suits that, though masculine in cut, were often feminine in style.

Oh. Oh no.

“What,” he said, finally breaking the silence, and his face was entirely unreadable to her, “are you reading, Miss French?”

She could feel her hair plastered about her face, and her breathing still had yet to calm down, and her arousal had been zapped though her skin still tingled, and goodness her skirt was still bunched up and her legs exposed and he likely saw the mess of her dowdy panties and  _I’m dowdy I’m ugly I’m disgusting I’m_

_And he! He’s so!_

“Belle,” he said softly, and she finally met his eyes. He leaned down and took the book from her, dog-earing the page she was on before closing it. “May I borrow this?”

She nodded numbly. He turned to leave, swift and like he’d never even arrived, and the door shut behind him with something loud that echoed with the ringing in her ears. Breath still panting loudly, she looked down at her hand, the one that he’d just caught her pleasuring herself with. She used it to gather what bit of skirt she could, shoved it into her mouth, and screamed - the sound of which only emitted as a high whine around the fabric.


	2. Getting Ready

Mr. Gold was a meticulous dresser, and so was Belle. 

He watched her between the stacks of books - he was hiding in the shelves and had been doing so for half an hour. He was certain she didn’t see him come in with the other morning patrons, and he was desperate to approach her, but not yet. He wanted to understand her first.

His shop could wait, for now he was trying to decipher why she seemed to be wearing two sweaters over a blouse. It wasn’t particularly cold in the library, nor outside. The outlines of her buttons could be seen underneath the fabric, creating an awkward bumpy line down her chest. Her hands were covered up to her knuckles from the weight of her sleeves; tiny, delicate fingers peeking through.

There was comfort in layers, he knew. Perhaps her ceremony of dressing was similar to his. Layer after layer, placed strategically and with care. Funny creatures they were, both slim and slight, using fabric to bulk up their frames and boost their confidence. At least, that’s what he did. Belle just seemed to be hiding.

She was open and friendly with patrons, but when alone she seemed to curl in on herself, back hunching and allowing her bulk of fabric to swallow her a little more. Her glasses and hair obscured her face, her lips becoming the part of her he inevitably focused on.

But he’d seen more of her now.

A long wool skirt currently skimmed her ankles, but he knew the legs underneath, and he couldn’t stop thinking about them.

Long things, shuttering in and out of vision behind his eyelids whenever he closed them. Shapely calves and lovely thighs that had been parted wide and explicit, open like the petals of his favorite flower. Beautiful stems, sharp in their angles, ending in a twisted bunch of grey tights but beginning, _oh_ , beginning with a pair of white cotton knickers soaked through with her arousal.

Such a strange sight. Belle French, sweet little librarian, simply heavy up top with sweaters and blouse and skirt all around her, a lollipop of fabric around the sticks of her legs, the true _sweetness_ of her on display in the middle. Such a sight to discover on a Tuesday afternoon!

It was now Thursday morning, and he’d spent all of Wednesday reading her book. He could see why she’d become so caught up in it, enough to try and hide herself away for a bit of pleasurable relief. When he got to the part she’d left off on, the part that had her writhing in her back room in ill-illusioned privacy, he had taken himself in hand and pictured those legs again.

He’d embarrassed her, he knew, and apologies were in order. He should have rushed from the room, as dignity would have called for. He wasn’t a dignified man, not truly - not when he found himself overcome by darker sensations. Dark and warm, dark and soothing. Sensations that had him hiding in her library now, peeking at her through what windows were offered between her books.

He had always wanted to know Belle, this obvious butterfly shrouded in a constant cocoon, and now he had a glimpse into her coil: her book.

He had taken her book, and wasn’t that terribly rude of him? But it had told him what he needed to know. He wasn't the chiseled, brawn vision she'd been touching herself to. The hero eclipsed his own slim self, graying hair, and aged skin. The facts stared at him plainly. Of all the people who could have walked in on her, he was the last she could ever want.

He gritted his teeth. He was excited and aroused by having found her, but she likely felt humiliation, and violation. His new idea would have to rest easy on his tongue until he delivered his apologies and fished her reaction to the whole situation. If she abhorred him, he’d let her, and leave her alone, and never speak a word of his discovery to her again. If she was . . . open, to his suggestion, however - well. Then that was another matter.

Her layers suggested a distaste for sexuality, or a high value on virginity - if not her desire to always be covered from head to foot, then simply by the sheer amount she wore. The alternative, something darker, suggested abuse, and that she hid her body in order to prevent further access from unwanted parties. If that was the case, well, Gold had never shied away from the idea of murder before.

But Gold didn't like to make assumptions. He preferred cold, hard facts, with plenty of proof to back them up. And he had his fact now, currently burning his fingers where they gripped the cover - her book was proof that Belle wanted _more_ , more than this.

_And when two parties have something the other wants, an arrangement can always be made._

Confrontation was his specialty. Tears never moved him, pleas fell on deaf ears, and threats of violence always ended up being turned around in his favor. But this was different - this wasn’t a late rent payment, a default on a loan, or a competitor for power. This was . . . Belle. This was him going after what _he_ wanted, something richer than coin, trickier than contracts, and he needed to tread carefully.

Gold eyed her buttons one more time. They were more than a bumpy ridge now, they were an invitation to connect with his own line of buttons, smooth and running down his chest under his vest, under his suit jacket. Were their layers really so terribly different, then?

He licked his lips, tongue dry and heavy, and swung his courage into action. When the floor was empty, and she was hunched over at her desk again, layers swallowing her again, he stepped out from his hiding place, open in the wide middle aisle, directly in her line of vision. Her face paled upon seeing him, and her back straightened.

He approached slowly, and she rose as well, rounding the desk just as slow, steps shaking, he was certain. But then he saw the clench of her fists, the furrow of her brow, and the way she stiffly set herself perfectly opposite of him. And suddenly the whole thing felt more like a desert, like a duel, and who would draw first? Her stare was stony and he set his jaw.

Gold zeroed in on her lips again, like he always did. Belle was blind to the motion, like she always was. Her lips, the only true thing visible under heavy hair and glasses, just above that taut collar, trembled as she spoke.

“Do you think I’m stupid? That I haven’t seen you there all morning?” her attempt at words, despite the fire she carried, was brittle and cracking, so he did his best not to bite in return.

The book was in his hand, a plain and open reminder of their last encounter. “I’ve come to offer you an apology.”

She looked down at the book, not extended or offered to her, but clutched close to his chest and under the arch of his arm. His tone didn’t sound apologetic.

“Apology not accepted. I want my book back.” She held out her hand decisively.

He rose his eyebrows. He hadn’t exactly expected her to cower before him, but thought she would at least accept his offerings as replacement for the awful embarrassment she’d suffered - or maybe, just maybe, a blush _._ She did none of these things. She stood with her arms folded, palm out, and her chin held high. Her face, still so pale.

He smiled. Or something like a smile.

“I shouldn’t have barged in on you like that--”

“ _No_ , you shouldn’t have.”

He licked his lips. “I understand that at your place of business, a knock would have been appreciated--”

“More like required.”

He sucked in a breath. “And what happens behind closed doors--”

“Should _stay_ behind closed doors.”

He released his breath loudly. “I have no plans to reveal the, _sacred_ , things I saw--”

“ _Sacred?_ ” she said, choking on the word like he was mocking her.

He cocked his head, biting at his own smile. Her hand had faltered somewhat, had shaken in the air, but refreshed its demand anew, palm raised higher, a brief nod of the fingers inward, silently demanding he return her tome.

“Belle,” he said, firm.

“My book. Please.”

“Belle,” he hissed, brimming. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“I have a . . . an idea, I would like to discuss with you.”

“I’m not interested. All I want is my book. My book and my _privacy_.”

He leaned closer, her outstretched palm inadvertently pressing into his chest. “If you want your privacy, don't finger your cunt in the middle of your office in the middle of the day!”

She stepped back, and the hand that had been demanding her book retreated, only to come back sailing through the air. He caught it before it could make contact with his face.

“Were you . . . were you about to slap me?”

She raised her other hand before he could stop her and slapped him across his face.

His eyes blazed something wild and dark and abrupt, a man possessed of his own demon. What little remained of his apologetic demeanor dropped like a sheet. He wanted to attack, she knew, but he pushed away instead, vibrating with rage.

His face was snarling.

“I want my book back,” she said for the hundredth time.

“Oh, you’ll get it back,” he said, drawing back up to her, enticed again, fire and mirth. He drew a hand up and cradled the blooming red mark on his cheek.

She reached forward to grab the book out of his other hand but he jerked it back, nearly pressing her against him. Their line of buttons almost connecting.

“You’ll get it back once I’m sure my come is good and sticky between the pages.”

“Your mouth is filthy,” she said, jerking on the book again.

“Your book was filthy!” he said, jerking it back.

“My-! Wait, you read it?”

“Of course I read it,” he snapped. “Why do you think I wanted it?”

“I,” she started. “I . . . why did you want it?”

He opened his mouth to shout again, but was slowed by a realization that should have hit him sooner - her dilated pupils, her parted lips, her shallow breath. She was no longer pale.

“I wanted to know what wound you up so tight that you had to get off at work,” he said.

He stumbled, suddenly - his leg was giving out and his cane suddenly clattered to the floor. Neither made a move to pick it up, but he reached out and braced a hand on her shoulder, noting her gentle gasp.

The stumble did little to help him in their argument, and he groaned inwardly. But she reached up, placed her hand over his, didn’t remove it, though she refused to look at him.

“Please just go,” she said, and there was agony there, she was deflating, where was she going? “Keep the book. Nevermind. Just keep it.”

“Belle,” he said, and every time he said her name he saw that color began to invade her cheeks. “Are you under the impression that I consider what I saw . . . disgusting?”

She closed her eyes. “Please don’t talk about it.”

“ _Belle_ ,” he hissed again, and that color rose, again.

The way she bit the inside of her lip, and refused to make eye contact, gave her away.

“Belle. At the risk of . . . frightening you, you must know that finding you like that was . . . arresting. Bewitching.”

“Please don’t mock me,” she said.

“Belle, honestly, why do you think I’m here?”

She still refused to meet his eyes, blue things managing to find a world inside the rim of her glasses more interesting than him. It made something yowl inside him, claw out and shriek and he only just managed to keep the wild noise at bay and replace it with a bob of his throat.

“Look at me,” he said, soft. And for the briefest moment, she did.

“Are you guys okay?” came a voice from behind him, high pitched and female and oblivious and completely ruining everything he hadn’t already made a mess of.

Ashley Boyd appeared just to the left of his line of vision.

He recovered first. “Just dropped my cane,” he said.

“I was helping him,” Belle said.

“Oh. Here y’go.” Ashley reached down and retrieved it, holding it out to the pair, and they reluctantly released each other. He took his cane, and righted himself.

“Thank you,” he said to Ashley, still looking at Belle.

But she’d lost all want for eye contact, and was instead tugging at her layers, straightening them out, straightening her glasses, straightening her hair.

He’d failed spectacularly, hadn’t he? Meant to be suave and seductive and _tread carefully_ and instead had just pissed all over the place, incredible ass that he was. And that was his usual, now wasn’t it?

He had no more than a moment to try and fix this. So, though doing so would drop the only real reason she had to deal with him anymore, he handed her her book.

“My deepest apologies,” he said, “I won’t bother you again.” He left; swiftly, definitively.

Belle watched him go, hands trembling where they finally held the book she’d demanded from him over and over. The cover was warm from where his hand had been holding it.

“Oh! _Her Handsome Hero_. I love that book!” Ashley cried.

Belle nodded, numbly, and rushed to her back room.  

She could see, subtle, between the pages, that his dog-ear still remained. Shaking, nails biting the cover, she bit down on the book, and screamed. It was likely that Ashley heard her.


	3. Getting Hot

She felt as tall as a church mouse. As well-busted as a 12-year old boy. All limbs, no curves. Nothing soft, nothing sensual, just ridged bones and straight lines that offered no breath of hips or waist. Some women were hourglasses, Belle was a saltshaker.

The black dress she wore said as much when she looked in the mirror. Locked away in her apartment, the indomitable Mr. Gold would have no way of walking in on her _here_. For the past week she’d been unable to go to bed without seeing him behind her eyes, both in the humiliation of his discovery and in the heat of some ill-founded arousal where his face replaced, _no_ , perfectly fit the villain of her novel.

She felt sick.

She kept reliving it all - from the gasp she made when he first entered her backroom, to the gasp she made when his hand had locked down on her shoulder as he’d stumbled. Each encounter bizarre, each one fraught with pain and humiliation, each one playing back, over and over, when she sought sleep, or a during moments in the day when she found herself alone. It seemed that he was still invading her, without having to barge in on her at all.

She’d tried to put on her favorite songs for confidence, drown herself in some Bowie, but as the Goblin King sang about drifting off into space, the sounds started to separate themselves from the melody, until all she could hear was the drum, and all she could taste was the sourness of her own tongue, and her insides felt carved, and her humiliation would renew itself afresh in her mind, and then that drum, _beat, beat, beat_

She wiped the wet from her face.

She stared at the black dress in the mirror, and it stared back. She’d owned this dress for three years, but had worn it no further than her closet. Today would be the day, she thought - today would be the perfect day to wear it. If Mr. Gold could saunter up to her looking impeccable and precise and _delicious_ (no!) in a suit, then why couldn’t she do the same in this dress? If he could see her as more than a frumpy librarian seeking pleasure in her back room, then maybe he could take her seriously.

But as she fingered her hemline for the umpteenth time, a wave of nausea overtook her.

She ran to the bathroom, heaving her stomach into the toilet.

She . . . couldn’t do this. Not dressed like this, anyway. The dress sagged where breasts should be, had no hips to hug, had no impressive legs to peek out from its mini hemline. She didn’t look sexy, or impressive, or impeccable.

She looked ridiculous.

If she showed up like this - oh, she could see it. Him biting the inside of his cheek to hide a laugh. Hands curling around his cane in amusement, letting her stutter before shutting her up with a wave of his hand. She was nothing more than a joke to him, and she’d only give him more reason to laugh if she wore this.

She wanted to feel like herself for this, and if herself was _dowdy_ , then so be it.

Reentering her closest, the black dress slid down her body, her back to the mirror. She let the fabric pool at her feet, and she thought about turning around to face her nude body. Instead she reached for her blouse, and trusty sweaters, and started to assemble her comforts, one layer at a time. The process alone helped to calm her.

Fumbling with her phone, she turned off her music. The Goblin King was too much like the villain from her novel, anyway.

She had demanded her book back, but would probably never enjoy it again. She’d tried to pick up where she left off, but Gold’s dog-eared page alone had her flinching. It was only in the greatest dark of night, when she couldn’t find sleep, that she reached for her novel, hand shaking and eyes burning, that she’d open to that page - that page of lovemaking and filthy fingering and what was it that he had said?

 _His_ _come would be good and sticky between the pages._

In the day, the words confused her, angered her. At night, they wrapped around her and made her grow very, very hot. So, after several nights, she started to revisit the terrible memories with a more analytical mind. What had he said, what had he said?

_Belle. I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you._

_Honestly, why do you think I’m here?_

She thought she knew. In the daytime it was all anger and humiliation and a ripe desire for revenge. But at night, at night, it was merely desire.

She had to stand her ground. But she also had to understand.

She’d never actually been in his shop before. When she entered with a tinkle of bells, she was surprised to see how cozy it looked. Hues of gold and blue greeted her, the sunlight dancing against each artifact, and she grumbled. Of course she would find the place amazing.

When he rounded from behind the shop’s back curtain, his dealer’s mask was on, but it dropped as soon as he saw who was approaching. The dark expression was replaced with a cocked eyebrow and parted lips, a look that made her fluster internally.

There were no instances she could remember of him being cruel to her; they’d always gotten along swimmingly, in fact. She had heard terrible stories about him, though, and when she’d been caught those stories were all she could think about. But he was in front of her, now, and her mind was clearer, now - she could see where the muddle was, and was ready to clear it.

Mouth open but no words coming out, she’d clearly taken too long to speak, for he sucked in a breath and took the initiative himself.

“Finally decided to make your way over to the lion’s den?”

Had she looked at him, she would have seen him wince at his own greeting.

She let out a short laugh, tried to smile, bit her lip instead. Her awkwardness coursed through her, surging, and gave her a rush though nothing had really even happened yet. Do the brave thing, she thought.

“I’m not good at this,” she admitted. “Confrontation. But. We had . . . you and I . . . a run-in. And. It went very terribly.”

“Both times,” he said, smiling, like he expected a smile from her as well. But she merely frowned, until he was frowning in return.

He rest his hands on the counter, wide and open and in what she assumed was some gesture of good faith. “I owe you an apology, Belle. For, well, showing up to apologize, and, then . . . yelling at you instead. It wasn’t the correct course of action, on my part. If you’d allow me, I’d like to offer true apologies now.”

“I’m not sure I can handle another apology, honestly.”

He gaped a bit, and looked down, pursing his lips. Before he could speak again, she placed a book, _the_ book, on the counter.

It rest between those open hands of his. He looked at it and was quiet a moment. “You seemed pretty desperate to have that back the last time we spoke.”

“Well, you promised to,” her voice was so hushed, “get your _come_ sticky between its pages.”

He looked up at her from the book, jaw shifting like he was grinding his teeth. “Now who’s mocking who?”

She sighed. “Look. When I saw you, at my library, I thought . . . I was led to believe that you were going to . . . blackmail me, for what you saw.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m a _dealmaker_ , Belle. Extortion, while fun, is not something I would seek against you.”

She frowned again, cocking her head to the side.

He sighed. “I suppose I can’t feign surprise at your accusation. I do have a _thick_ reputation around here, don’t I?”

She didn’t acknowledge his comment, but she did look him in the eye. There was a flash there, when she did, like he’d been waiting to meet her eye this whole time.

“You,” she started, “you said you had an idea. That you wanted to discuss. I . . . shut you down, before you got to say anything.”

He was grinding his teeth again, she was sure. “I did. But, before we discuss my, well, _suggestion_ . . . not a deal, mind you . . . I’d like to ask,” and he moved forward, very slowly, clearly indicating that he meant to touch her hand.

When she didn’t move away, he looked to her face, waiting for objection. She gave none, and he let his touch graze one of her nails before taking her fingers and turning her hand palm up.

“Why so many layers?” 

Belle’s lip twitched, her bravery not fleeing so much as stilling and staring down at the hand that held hers. He wiggled a thumb up to her palm, revealing each coating of her armor, fanning them out.

When she didn’t answer, he continued. “Now, see, here, I’m counting . . . coat, one sweater, two, now your blouse . . . and I wouldn’t be surprised if you were also wearing an undershirt of some sort.”

“What of it?” Belle asked.

He stared at her steadily, taking advantage of his position at her hand to feel her pulse, and what was she to make of that?

“I’d just like to know why,” he said.

“It’s not some great mystery.”

“It is to me,” he said, and she looked up at him. There it was again, that twist in her gut that told her he was mocking her, about to laugh her out of the room, or make some snide remark. But her bravery swooped back up, and reassured her that he hadn’t done such a thing yet, not truly, and _don’t run away just yet_.

He opened his mouth to speak but she interrupted.

“What’s wrong with dressing this way?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing would be wrong with it, if you didn’t hate it so much.”

“I don’t . . . hate it,” she said.

“You do,” he said.

“No, I,” she said, fumbling.

“Belle, nothing is wrong with layers,” he said, gesturing to his own ensemble, and yes, there it was, she saw. Shirt, tie, vest, jacket . . . likely an undershirt, underneath it all.

“Just,” he continued, “may I suggest clothing that actually fits?”

“ . . . they fit fine,” Belle said, feeling that twist again.

He released her hand, and she flexed her fingers from the abandoned touch. He stepped back, and she eyed him as he suddenly grabbed his cane and rounded the counter. She took a step to retreat but there was his hand again, moving forward slowly, indicating he wanted to touch her again. Both hands now, and she looked up at his face, accepting its neutrality, and gave a small nod. He nodded in return.

“Belle, your waist is here,” he said, gently grasping her around the middle, and her stomach flipped. “Not . . . here,” he said, opening his hands to the part of her sweater that billowed widest.

Had she just gasped? She wasn’t sure.

He drew his hands away, rest them on his cane, but didn’t move away from her. “How long have we known each other, Belle?”

She focused on the knot of his tie. “Years,” she said vaguely.

He stood a moment, and was he breathing her in? She looked up at him, and she could very keenly see the brown of his eyes, rich and like something was swimming eagerly inside, and he reached up a hand again, slow, waiting again to see if she’d object. She didn’t, and he removed her glasses.

“There. Now I can actually see you.”

 _But I can’t see you,_ she nearly said, nearly, because she could actually see him quite well, he was so terribly close. He rest her glasses on the counter.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Frankly, I’m tired of doing that. So I’ll stop asking if you’d like. You can tell me to shove it up my arse. This will be the last time, and if you refuse to answer, I’ll accept it: why so many layers?”

She was biting her lip again, and it was starting to feel raw from the motion. “It helps me to feel . . . safe.”

“Safe,” he said, testing the word. “Safe from what, exactly?” Then, black crossed his face. “Have you ever been hurt?”

“No,” she said, at the same time he demanded “ _Who?_ ”

“No, _no,”_ she said quickly. “I just mean safe, from,” she stuttered, “from myself.”

He stared at her. “You don’t like yourself,” he said, in a very quiet sort of way. He was so close.

Her throat constricted and her eyes started to blink with wet. “No,” she said.

When her shoulders started to shake, he put his arms around her, and it wasn’t slow this time, and he pulled her into him. He stroked her back, and she let him, she let him.

“I understand, Belle,” he said. “More than you know.”

“You don’t,” she said. “I’m _dowdy_. You’re immaculate.”

He chuckled. “ _Immaculate_ isn’t that hard to attain, really.”

She didn’t sob into him, didn’t cry, merely blinked away the emotions that managed to leak quite quietly from her eyes. But he seemed to understand that motion, at least, even if she was still sure that he’d never understand just how _dowdy_ she felt.

“I can’t make you like yourself,” he said. “But I can show you what I see, when I look at you.”

He turned her, had her face a mirror on the counter. It was lovely antique thing, oval and on an ornate stand. He shifted it to face her, reaching around her and angling it until her face came into view.

“I’ve known your allure for a long time, Belle. From the moment I first saw you,” he said, and his hand was clenching in such a way, like he was trying to keep it still, like it _wanted_ and he had to restrain both his fingers and that want.

“I can’t see,” she reprimanded with a watery breath. “You took my glasses off.”

He chuckled, and she managed a few chuckles in return.

“You’re still alluring, I assure you,” he said, returning her glasses, and she placed them on with a small smile. She appreciated his attempt, but allure wasn’t beauty, was it? Strange things could be alluring. Dark things.

Longing was such a funny emotion.

“You still haven’t told me your idea,” she said.

She turned in his arms, and he held her shoulder, the weight of his hand a strange reminder of their last encounter. The look he gave her was . . . well, _hungry_ wasn’t quite the word. He was quiet a long time.

“It is a deal, after all, I suppose. Only … we want the same thing, I think.”

“All right,” she said, slowly.

“I would like to do . . . to you . . . what the hero was doing to the heroine. In your novel.”

She opened her mouth, and yes, _hunger_ was the word, but now words failed her.

He nodded though she said nothing, and her expression must have thrown him. “I realize I’m not the dark haired, muscled, chiseled vision described in your text. And I understand. If that’s a problem for you.”

“A problem?” she said. And very briefly, she heard that drumming from her song, from the Goblin King singing of a space man, and Gold’s Armani suit suddenly took on a different role - that beautiful tailored cut, that beautiful style, the colors, leather and a tittering giggle and that wiry frame _and_

“You’re perfect,” she blurted. “I don’t want the man in the novel. I just want what he was . . . well, _doing_ to her, as you said.”

“You’re not after a,” he paused, searching for that phrase, that title. “A _Handsome Hero_?”

“Scruff,” she said simply.

“Scruff?”

“I don’t want it. The author gave her hero scruff.”

He quirked his eyebrow.

“Love is layered,” she said. “It’s . . . a mystery, to be uncovered. The hero in the book . . . he’s too obvious. He’s what I’d expect, from a book like that. I want something . . . I want what he was _doing_ to her, I want what they were doing _together_ , but I don’t necessarily want . . . him.”

He nodded again, licked his lips, flexed his fingers where they held her shoulder. “I agree that love is . . . _layered_ ,” he said, moving his hand down, catching the bulk of her sweater between his thumb and forefinger. “And if it makes any difference, I’m not looking for that particular type of heroine, either.”

“Beautiful,” she supplied.

He narrowed his eyes. “You _are_ beautiful. Very. What I mean is - she’s obvious, too. An obvious heroine; a typical, expected beauty. Your beauty is . . . uncharted. Seething.”

 _Seething._ God! It was on the tip of her tongue to disagree with him, to insist, _no, no, I’m nothing, I’m plain, I’m nothing_ , but he hadn’t turned down her compliment, sincere as it was, so she would allow his compliment, and make way for his sincerity.

“You know what I want?” she said, the truth suddenly bubbling out of her, and those drums, she heard them. “You know what I wish? That the heroine didn’t choose the hero - but the villain.”

He kept rubbing at the bulk of sweater caught between his fingers. “The villain?”

“That’d be far more interesting, don’t you think?” she said, getting excited now. “The villain, wiry cad that he is - if maybe his, well, attraction to her, were allowed to interfere with his plans. If his affection for her were allowed to be more important than his tricks and schemes, don’t you think that’d be terribly interesting? That kind of man, the smart, conniving type, that sarcastic humor, dark humor - that’s terribly sexy. I’d much rather see that man making love to our heroine, do you see? What would it take for that kind of man to lose himself? In sexuality, in pleasure, in love? What would make that kind of man let down his guard, and pursue happiness, pursue delights?”

He stared at her, and for a moment embarrassment started to creep at the edges of her vigor, and she worried that he would find her weird, now; weirder than he had before. The kind of weird that he _wouldn’t_ want to touch or explore.

Instead, he leaned forward, a new kind of nervous energy about him. “You don’t want scruff, you want . . . wiry.”

She smiled. “Sharp-nosed.”

“Conniving. Not . . . dashing.”

“The wizard, not the knight.”

“You want the villain?”

“You want to . . . do those things to me?”

He nodded. 

She nodded in return. “Then I want the villain.”

Somewhere below her vision, where he held her eyes most captive, he pinched his leg. Pain confirmed his reality, and he pinched again, harder, then harder - hard enough to scream, and indeed, he nearly did, his smile was so wicked.


	4. Getting Close

His hand reached idly into the spray.

It was searing hot, just the way he liked it. And the tiles, where he pressed his forehead, were cool to the touch. His hair sopped down those tiles in wriggly lines, the rest of his hair lining his cheeks and neck and creating a small curtain of privacy around his own face. He smiled.

Long, slow strokes. He was in no rush.

He had kissed her, after that - after her confession about her book. Perhaps he should have waited, offered her something more romantic like a low-lit restaurant or dark theatre or secluded park - but he couldn’t help himself. She had transformed before him. Her back had gotten taller and straighter with each word she spoke, her eyes had brightened and her smile had beamed. Finally, they had reached the understanding they had missed for so long, and to let her leave his shop without gathering her up in his arms would have been to deny their natural path.

She had squeaked at first. Because he had pinched his thigh, then mindlessly grabbed hers. He’d regained himself enough to pull back, see that it hadn’t been a squeak of protest, but merely surprise, and she’d grabbed his face, marking his intentions. Only when her smile was wider than before did he lean forward, and take her lips with his. It was sloppy, he had opened his mouth too quickly, seeking out her tongue when he perhaps should have plucked sweetly first. But she had returned his fervor, moaning into him with his first curious thrust, and _oh!_ he thrust into his own hand at the memory.

She had clung to him, lovely thing, reaching up and twining her fingers into his hair. When his tongue had touched hers she'd startled, nails biting into his scalp, causing him to moan in time with her, and he grew bold, unembarrassed of the erection he had pressed so tightly between them, pushing at her layers, begging for entry, pushing at her hips, then so close to her center, pushing, pushing, into his hand with the heat of the spray around him. It was such a good memory, just as delicious as when he'd first found her.

It was wonderful, it was arousing, but it didn’t solve things. It was clear that Belle didn’t enjoy her body, the way he didn’t enjoy his. But oh, to enjoy one another’s bodies - well, that was something different entirely.

Could he ever explain this to her? This dire need to possess and make something belong to him? That finding her had felt so very personal to him, reading her novel had made it his novel too, and the breathy little pants she’d made when he’d kissed her were his pants now, his breath. Oxygen and carbon dioxide and her lungs were _his_ now and

Perhaps he was being too dramatic. That strong desire to _possess_ had manifested itself by simply offering his hand to her, and relishing in the feel of his fingers clasped around hers. But the villain of her novel had an obsession with possession too, now didn’t he? And perhaps she liked that, if she liked the other things. Could it be forgiven, this spark, if he kept it kind and respectful? If he tempered it with compassion and generosity? And oh, how he wanted to be generous.

But what Belle truly wanted out of this scenario - he was guessing - was the confidence the heroine positively possessed. Belle, for all her charms, was by best descriptions demure and more realistically, insecure _._ And there was danger there. He didn’t want to possess if she didn’t want to be possessed. Like the villain in her novel, there was the need for control, but also the need to be chosen. To be controlled, in return.

Ah, to be controlled by Belle. What an idea! He allowed his strokes to speed up a little, and the spray was still so terribly hot and perfect, pressure hard against his back, persistent pinpricks of heat that echoed in his hand, wrapped around himself. One stroke furious, the other long and wanting. The way her lips had gone red from the red of his. And before their kiss - the way her knickers had looked, her legs wide open. The smudge on her glasses.

He was in no rush.

A small act of his possession and generosity would be presented to her tomorrow. He’d bought her a sweater. Dark blue, like her eyes. Gold stitching, his small claim.

He reached up with his free hand, ran it through his sopping hair, then over the cool of the tile, a gentle scraping of his nails, and tightened, then sighed.

Across town, high up above her books, Belle lay in bed, thinking of a man both wiry and wicked.

It was hard to sleep in one’s own bed after someone suggested you sleep in theirs. Well, she assumed a bed would be involved.

And it was hard to breathe when one’s breath felt consistently stolen. He had kissed her, after her long confession, and that moment he’d first leaned in, she’d grabbed his face. Held it those few inches away, studied him before he could make his kill. She’d been vibrating with desire and excitement from her speech, but she had to be sure that whatever this was, this strange dance they’d been sharing, would lead to something better than where it had began. So she searched his face, and when he smiled, she smiled back.

He had kissed her, and then again, and again, and it had stolen something from her lungs, so each breath was only half before she stuttered for more air. The feeling was rapturous, kept her smile growing wider and wider with each stroke of memory. It kept her up, kept sleep at bay - sleep, that activity for those not kissed senseless days before.

She rose, fabric crinkling around her. She didn’t wear near as many layers to bed, but she felt stuffy with fabric anyway, from the sheets to the comforter to the extra blankets piled atop her. She pushed them off, and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She reached for her lamp, then hesitated.

She knew her way around just fine, even in the dark.

Ignoring her lamp, she stood, and made her way to the door. The staircase below was black and winding, and had her blood not been alight, she probably would have shivered, or turned around. But as it was, an excitable haze carried her down, each step bouncing back into the balls of her feet, like the building was just as excited as she, and could anticipate her action.

It was dark, and locked up, and her only real audience was the moon. But knowing that this was both a public space and _her_ space gave her a bite of adrenaline. And she could imagine him there, sly figure, just ahead of her each step, enticing her smile with his own.

Usually always so covered up. Head to toe, to the knuckles of her fingers. Shaking, she started with the buttons that ran along her chest, undoing them one by one. She was to the circulation desk now, and memories of patrons and books and receipts and _him_ danced around her, and she reached the last button. The temptation to fold and gently set her nightshirt on the desk was overwhelmed by the more exciting option of throwing it through the air, but she forgoed either and simply let it fall from her shoulders to the floor.

The rest of her clothing followed, making a small path to the front doors, their glass clear and inviting. Nightshirt gone, pants gone, undershirt, panties, until she was nude at the glass. It was dark, and quiet, and no one was around to feel her happiness, or see as she opened her arms to the night around her. No one was there to see her smile, or pretend that she was somewhere more daring than an empty library, but as her arms reached out and her breasts were bare and her tummy and legs were cold, she laughed. Nothing long or loud, but laughter nevertheless, while nude, something she’d never done before.

She was trembling wildly, of course, and the laughter was accompanied by small drops from her eyes. But it was a good cry, relieving, soothing.

Back upstairs, her clothing bundled in her arms, she chose not to put them back on. Instead, she crawled into the sheets as she was, the feeling of such loose fabric all about her strange and welcoming. It slid around her and took no form, nothing to hold her arms or legs. She could move her whole body and the fabric would glide around her. And soon, perhaps, he would glide in here with her too. She could imagine his figure, dark shadow above her, hair framing her face as he kissed her again and again, her nails down his back, and she’d sigh.

The next day was bright and cheery, as though the moon had ratted her out to the sun as they made their exchange. She didn’t mind. If the sun knew what’d she’d been up to the night before, it would perhaps be proud of her as she made her merry way over to Gold’s pawn shop.

She felt she understood him a little better, now. And what he understood of her he didn’t laugh at or dismiss, and how wonderful it was to be understood and well received for it.

Entering his shop with that now familiar tinkle of bells, his face upon seeing her faltered only a little. She continued to smile, though. She knew he’d comment on the change.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” he said, rounding the counter to meet her, then reaching around her to flip his _open_ sign to _closed_ , and her heart jumped.

“Yes. I own contacts. I just don’t wear them often.”

He could see a bit of red in her eyes, but politely didn’t comment. She was smiling so broadly, after all.

Despite her cheery demeanor, she could feel her chest getting a little light of breath, and her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sweater. She tried to hide the fidgeting behind her back. “I thought . . . people take them off sometimes. Glasses. When they kiss. So I thought I’d wear contacts.”

His expression warmed, but he didn’t move closer yet. “Do you like them?”

“Yes. Well. Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

She couldn't help it, she had to reach up and rub an eye. She worried it made her look childish. “These are old. I just need to get some new ones.”

He nodded, and reached up to cup her face. He could see the rim of her contacts where they lined her eyes, and hoped she’d get a fresh pair soon if she meant to keep this up. “People with glasses are able to kiss, you know,” he said.

“I know.”

“Sometimes even two people with glasses kiss. Their frames might knock about, but that probably adds to the excitement.”

She bit her lip to suppress a laugh. “Do you have glasses?”

“Yes. Reading glasses.”

“Well. I’ll wear my glasses next time and we can . . . knock about.”

He smiled something impish. “Don’t tempt me.”

“That’s why I’m here, though. To see how I might . . . tempt you.”

His smile grew, and oh how it could curl. His touch at her face, so clinical at first, seemingly just to get a closer look at her eyes, sunk deeper into her skin. His fingers padded along her ear and cheekbones, then his thumb along her jaw.

“You don’t have to change anything for me, you know. Not _for me_.”

“I know,” she said. “Nothing wrong with trying new things.”

Both of his hands were on her face, pushing her hair out of the way. She felt the counter against her back and his warmth closing in on her chest and legs. He’d gotten so close so fast, and before her mind connected with her nerves, her arms had found their way around him, and her legs had opened slightly, and she moved to nestle him inside.

His breath fanned her face for a moment before he moved down to kiss her, starting at her forehead and moving down to her nose, then, finally, her lips.  She received him enthusiastically, and he would have smiled again if he wasn’t busy tasting her. She was warm and her skin was both sweet and salty, and sweat beaded lightly along her brow, and he breathed in deep, the memory of her open legs and soaking arousal suddenly taking him over once more. He groaned, and his good leg involuntarily twitched where it was situated at her center, and he felt her hips twitch in return with a small gasp.

He moved back, gently, but her hands moved from his back to his face. He had kissed other women before, had indulged in passion before, but none had ever held his face the way Belle French did now. Like she liked what she was seeing, wanted to touch what she found pleasing. He couldn’t speak for a moment - the awe in her face, so clear now that her glasses were absent and her hair swept aside, rendered him quite dumb.

She leaned up and kissed his temple, lips running along his face as she moved her way over to his other temple. Sweet kisses, deliberate in their want and gentle in their teasing. When she’d finished, she set herself back against the counter, hands twined casually about his neck. He stared at her, his lips parted and wanting more.

“It is . . . slightly easier,” he acquiesced. “Without your glasses.”

Running a hand up her arm, he gathered her hand, pushing back the fabric of her sleeve to twine her fingers.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“Oh?”

He retrieved the gift box from behind the counter, blue like its contents and wrapped in a bow the color of his namesake. She looked utterly confused as she plucked it open.

Briefly he worried if she would take offense to the gift. _Why so many layers?_ he had asked, and then here he was offering her another. She smiled upon seeing it, and he watched as she held it up for closer examination.

Her cheeks reddened. The fabric was rich and luxurious, finer than any she owned. It had no bulk, and it wouldn’t hang, it would hug. She fingered the stitching: gold.

“I wanted to be a part of your layers,” he said, reaching up to cover her hand with is. “Greedy bastard that I am.”

Was that sarcasm? No, the look in his eye was just as he’d described, _greedy_. She rest the sweater down, back into the box, and though the gift only touched her fingers and the only thing different about her were the clear lenses on her eyes, she did not feel one bit of _dowdy._

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

He reached up again, touching her hair, her face. She gently placed the lid back on his gift, but he reached his other hand forward, revealing that her book was underneath the sweater.

“Oh!” she said.

“I was rereading your book,” he said, opening up to a particular page. “And the hero’s dialogue here is . . . “

“Ludicrous?” she laughed, recognizing the scene, and he laughed in return.

“. . . so I thought I'd take some of the villain’s lines and … make his meaning a little more explicit.”

“Explicit,” she echoed. “Which lines?”

“When she enters his lair,” he said. “Just after he’d been watching her - ”

“ - when she thought she was alone,” Belle finished.

It was funny discussing role playing with someone she’d never actually slept with before. They’d done little more than kiss and caress, and prior to that stomp and yell at each other. Yet here they were, comfortable with picking apart a romance novel, promising to enact its intimate scenes.

“I thought about it all weekend,” she suddenly blurted. “The way you kissed me. Before.”

He swallowed, set the book down. “Did you, now?”

She nodded, and he remembered the hot spray, his fingers wrapped around himself. “Did you touch yourself, again?” he said. _Thinking of me?_ he didn’t say.

She smiled, small. “Have you ever wanted something so very, very much?”

His fingers clenched involuntarily at her question. There it was, that spark. It ran down his arms, burning and humming. Possession, he wanted her. But perhaps, just perhaps, that was possession in her eyes too?

“I have to get to the library now,” she said, and the words were so simple, so mundane, so _daily_ , but he grasped at what he could.

“Come back for lunch?” he said, a hand at her pulse again, because he couldn’t help himself.

And so her lunch hour became his. Sometimes her meeting him, sometimes he meeting her. Library, shop, back and forth. Their book always there, between them.

She was fun and sweet and silly and the more they met and talked, the straighter her back got. Until the layers weren’t swallowing her so terribly, until her rounded arch now bowed the other way, allowing the pert buds of her breasts to display instead. The sweaters remained, colors deep as before, the rusty orange and the forest green, but never the navy blue. Their conversations were so happy, but that underlying absence left him worried.

“Belle?” he asked one day, in her back room, lunch settled about them.

“Mmm?”

“You’ve . . . yet to wear the sweater I got you.”

She swallowed a bit hard on her food, nodding.

“Did you not like it?”

“Oh, no, it’s a lovely sweater,” she said.

“I mean, do you not like that I got it for you? Was that presumptuous of me?”

“No, no,” she said, reaching out a hand to cover his, and what lovely progress that was. “It’s just. Well. I thought I would wear it when. Well, when I’m ready.”

“Ready?” he said, though he knew everything about her meaning.

She swallowed again, though her food was gone. “We’ve talked about . . . wanting,” she said. “But now . . . can we talk about it? Sex?”

“Yes, Belle. We ought to.”

She smiled, chewed on her lip. “Until you caught me . . . I know I may not have seemed like a sexual person.”

Now, what a funny thing to say, he thought. What made for a sexual person? Revealing one’s body? One could reveal without wanting, surely. And here they were, two completely buttoned-up fools, drowning in want.

“It's different, you see,” she said. “Wanting sex in the real world versus my fantasy. It’s easy to feel sexual and aroused and free in my head, in my stories. But then I open my eyes and I’m in my library, or the diner, and the men and women around me are Leroy and Astrid, and I feel shame for wanting. Or it's Killian and Ruby, and I feel lacking. Reality always ruins it, makes me feel . . . it’s easier to hide. But in my head, in my home . . . it becomes less about hiding, and more about escape. And here, with you. It becomes that more, that I want.”

She licked her lips, worried she was getting ahead of herself again, getting weird again, revealing too much. But he hadn’t recoiled before, and he wasn’t recoiling now. “I let it cross, when you caught me. Real world and fantasy.”

He was chewing the inside of his cheek, and looking down, and she worried terribly what he’d say. “I meant to ask. And I don’t want to offend. But I wanted to enquire about . . . your experience.”

She smiled, sad. “You mean, am I a virgin?”

“I didn’t want to say it so bluntly.”

“I’m not.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“But it’s, um. Been a very long time. And it was all a bit quite . . . awful.”

“Will you tell me why?”

“It was awful because . . . I was clearly more invested in it than he was. He liked sex, I think, but he . . . he treated it like it . . . like I, perhaps . . . was boring.”

Gold opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.

“In my books. They made it sound like, when you’re seen for the first time, completely bare, when they get to touch you for the first time . . . that they’d be in awe. But, he wasn’t. He didn’t even really look at me. Just kind of . . . rushed it.”

Her words, spoken so clearly, rang in his head. He could picture it, an eager and happy Belle, ready to engage in such wonderful intimacies, only to have them rushed. Only to have her not cherished, not one bit. His hand clenched at his cane, the fingernails gripping tight into the wood, tight until his muscles twitched violently, and the tip of his cane scraped loudly against the floor.

He coughed in his attempt at recovery. “Is this why you feel dowdy, as you said?”

“Perhaps,” she laughed, though the sound was terribly sad. “I’m not much to look at. But I still want it, you know? I still want sex. For someone to look at me in awe.”

“Belle,” he said, trying very hard to temper that desire, that possession, “if I have things my way, you will _never_ feel dowdy again.”

“Oh, I know,” she smiled, and warmth had finally returned to her, her back growing beautifully straight again. “You look at me in awe all the time. And I’m more than perfectly covered.”

He smiled, and reached for her hand, so very glad his attentions were received, and not frightening.

“What about you?” she asked, and it took him a moment to realize she meant just how sexually experienced he was. It was a bumpy question for him.

“Well,” he started, coughing again. “Do _I_ look like a sexual person?”

“Yes,” she blurted. “ _God_ , yes. You ooze sex.”

He wasn’t expecting that response at all. “ . . . _ooze?_ ”

“You’re so . . . confident, and handsome, and impeccable, and . . . self-assured, and the way you look at me and, _God_ , the way you kiss - ”

“Belle,” he stopped her. “Those things don’t make me a sexual person. Well, the kissing, for sure, but, exactly how experienced do you think I am?”

“Well, who wouldn’t want you? It really comes down to you wanting to give someone the time, I’m sure.”

And how could she say that so easily? His memories of Milah, those sad bitter things, and his memories of Cora, angry things, all laughed at her assumption. But how flattering it was, this vision she had of him. Had he not had his limp and very large chip on his shoulder, perhaps he could see whatever man she was envisioning when she looked at him.

“Belle. From what you’ve told me, my sexual experiences are about on par with yours.”

“. . . what?”

“Also quite awful, and rushed. Yet, like you, I crave . . .” he reached out a hand, rubbing her sweater between his forefinger and thumb, “ _more_.”

She licked her lips, and could a tongue tremble?

“With my . . . previous partners, it was clear that I, too, was far more invested. I wanted to . . . explore, look, engage, taste . . . let it last a good long time. But, for some people, sex is about on par with any other chore. Laundry, dishes, bills. And I . . . well, I was a chore.”

She was giving him a funny look, like disbelief, but sadder, and she grabbed his hand and held it between both of hers.

“If you were a chore,” she said, “I’d become your permanent, live-in maid.”

He laughed. He laughed and laughed, she with him. Laughed until their sides ached.

When finished, Belle, lightly rubbing the tears from her eyes, gripped his hand again, and scooted her chair closer to his, giving him a very deliberate look in the eye.

“If we do this,” she said, “the things, the things in our book. I want the awe, the exploring, the looking . . . the good long time. I don’t want it rushed. Please.”

“Belle,” he smiled. “I have a feeling we are both terribly sexual people who’ve been looking for the right partner,” and that smile grew wicked again, as it always did, “and I think we’ve just been found.”

“Then,” she said, a quirked smile, “I’ll wear my new sweater.”

And they talked about it a little more, where and when, what kind of locations seemed enticing, time of day, where to meet. Protection, assured they were both clean, the like. No definite plans were made, but they were closer, they were closer.

In fact, when she walked over to his shop the next day, and saw him standing outside of it, rather than waiting inside for lunch as had become their usual, she thought nothing of it. Simply waved and smiled in his direction, and he waved and smiled too, then gave her a peculiar nod, and crossed the street.

She stood with her hand in the air, feeling a bit stupid for a moment, then watched as he turned one last time to nod at her, and opened the door to the building across the street.

Her heart began to stutter. She made her way over to his shop, and rest their lunch on his stoop. She smoothed down her sweater, only one today, the navy blue one he’d gotten her.

Crossing the street to him, she watched as his hands twitched at his cane briefly, and he ducked inside the building before she could even make it to his end of the sidewalk. The building’s door was unlocked, and with a mix of both trepidation and hot excitement, Belle turned and locked the door behind her as she stepped inside.

She knew this place, an old abandoned flower shop, and the smell of must and mold was tempered with a smell that meant it’d recently been cleaned. Indeed, looking about the shop it seemed it used to be covered in dust, and spots here and there showed where items used to be sitting for ages but had been cleaned away, tucked aside. Light filtered in and gave the building a quiet, breathy feel.

She didn’t see Mr. Gold anywhere.

She stepped forward, hands shaking, and noted his cane against the counter just in front of a door that led to the back room. She wandered in, slowly, thinking she should at least hear him moving about, yet she heard nothing but her own breath, her own heartbeat. The back room was equally as empty as the front, save for a staircase that led to the upstairs. Her hands shaking anew, in something more exhilarating than before, she took to the steps.  

The staircase was narrow and the walls constricting, but she made her way to the top. The room before her was filtered in such blinding light that she had to blink a few times, and when she heard the creak of a door behind her, she blinked several times more.

“It's a bit insulting,” his voice said, before grabbing her about the waist and clasping a hand over her mouth. “The fool you must take me for, to think I wouldn't know when you've arrived at my lair, traipsing about as though I'd be completely unawares. I can _smell_ you, foolish girl. Taste you in the air.”

This was where she was supposed to scream, she knew, but all she could do was kiss her breath into his palm and grin against his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies if this chapter felt scattered - we’ve got family visiting, but I wanted to get this chapter out rather than put it on hold, so it was written a bit hastily. 
> 
> This was meant to be nothing more than a very silly, silly, smutty story, but it’s grown into something bigger than I ever expected. Thank you so much for your feedback and responses! The yummy part is up next ;)


	5. Getting Even

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for you, my beautiful sin babies

_“It's a bit insulting,” he said from somewhere behind her, and she screamed from the startle he gave her, spinning around in a flurry._

_“The fool you must take me for, to think I wouldn't know when you've arrived at my lair, traipsing about as though I'd be completely unawares. I can_ smell _you, foolish girl. Taste you in the air.”_

_“I . . . I know,” she said, brandishing her sword, though she knew it’d be useless against his tricks. She had another card up her sleeve._

_“I’m here to talk . . . Rumplestiltskin.”_

_And there he was, out of the shadows like a glimmer of light, but more sinister. He couldn’t hide his snarl in time, she saw it before he replaced those wretched fangs with a smile._

_“How dare you speak my name,” he said, smiling, icy, absolutely cold._

_“I did. Now give me the dagger.”_

_“Give_ you _the dagger? What makes you think I have it, or that I would ever,_ ever _give it to_ you _?”_

_He danced around her, in and out of the light of his lair, and she tried her best to keep up with his turns, never allowing her back to face him, always keeping her sword high._

_His name, that mystery no one had been able to solve, had been answered for her after her quest to the wishing well. The well had granted her wish, and though it would have been easier to end this whole affair and simply wish for the peace of her kingdom, she could not admit she was the good princess her mother and father had raised her to be, could not admit that selfishness often crept at her edges and the mysteries of this creature kept her up at night - she had to see him again, and she had to know._

_So she’d wished for his name._

_“You have to give me the dagger,” she said._

_His face twitched. “I don’t have to give you anything, dearie. Especially items I don’t have.”_

_“Liar! You guard it. You keep it secret. Trick others into thinking you seek it - that it’s lost, stolen, hidden away - when you’ve had it this whole time.”_

_“Have I?” he said, that teasing voice, that giggle, and he prowled towards her. The way he moved his head, he must have been smelling her. He raised a hand to touch her hair and she braced herself._

_“I know how to make you give it to me,” she said._

_“Oh?”_

_“Names have power,” she smiled. “Rumplestiltskin.”_

_The pretense of his smile fell, and he launched at her._

And it was at this point in the novel where they tumbled, heroine and villain, him trying to physically stop her from saying his name a third time, that magic time that would force him to do her bidding. And just when it seemed he’d gotten the best of her, and she was erotically pinned beneath him and he was smelling her hair again, the hero arrived _just in time!_ to save the day by somehow also knowing Rumplestiltskin’s name and saying it three times. And what a terrible way for that scene to end.

As for the rest of the book, the heroine used the magical dagger to control the villain for some necessary kingdom-saving reason, and then stabbed him with it at the end to free him, _free him!_ and turn him back into an ordinary man. Or something. All heroic and noble and tied with a bow and off into the sunset and boring.

Yet, in the scene where the heroine stabbed her villain, Belle did not picture his eyes narrowing in anger, but in disbelief, as the knife plunged into his heart after he’d supplied it to his heroine and saved her kingdom so dutifully. And in the many scenes where they worked together to protect her kingdom, the author had painted such a clear picture of _want_ from her villain, even when he was being controlled, that though his stabbing was likely something Belle was supposed to cheer as a reader, it only felt like a terrible, cruel betrayal.

Belle and Gold had talked all this through. The lair scene, the subsequent dagger-control scenes, and then the one where the hero and heroine celebrate their victory by consummating their love. They both agreed that the hero hadn’t really contributed anything, and if a victory were to be celebrated, it should be between heroine and villain. And no silly stabbing would happen at the end.

But what was most important to Belle, truly, was the banter and sexual tension shared between the heroine and villain, not necessarily a rewritten reenactment of the ending. _No!_ the heroine had said, _I no longer want to control him, I want to free him!_ but Belle had felt that control, keenly, and understood it differently than simple demands without the will to deny. Rather, she saw obedience, laid down as a haphazard gift at the feet of longing. And she wanted more of it. Wanted to be wrapped in it, slide inside it.

So they’d invented a scene together, Gold and Belle - no more silly burden of a hero in the way, the heroine could manage just fine. In the scene the heroine was allowed to be filled with trepidation, and longing, and was allowed to grapple with why the villain looked at her the way he did, and address why he sometimes followed her commands even when she didn’t have hold of the dagger.

“Wouldn’t it be terribly wicked,” Belle had said to Gold, “and interesting, if one night, she went down to his cell, to see him privately? And have all those confusing, itching questions answered?”

And Gold had smiled.

Just what Belle had to expect from this encounter they’d prepared, she wasn’t sure. But she was already trembling wildly, her anticipation harsh and beautiful. She had informed him of her favorite lines of dialogue, and he of his. He held her now, whispering those devilish lair lines to her, and her smile nearly ate her up.

“The fool you must take me for, to think I wouldn't know when you've arrived at my lair, traipsing about as though I'd be completely unawares. I can _smell_ you, foolish girl. Taste you in the air.”

And his hand wound over her mouth, his fingers nearly inserting themselves past her lips, but instead he turned her head, and ran his lips over her forehead. His arm was gentle at her waist, but his fingers dug into her hip.

He’d led her here, this place. A room large and open, bright and white and definitely not a lair, aside from the nefarious deeds they meant to commit here. But there was something beautiful in it, the unwashed windows alongside their exposed brick, the noonday sun making its way in, touching every inch, every corner. The bare and open feel of it all, the _good_ it placed within her, that what they were about to do would be very open and cheering.

A bed was in the middle of the room, and how had he managed that? Its bedding looked plush and inviting, and it stood on a sturdy frame, a headboard for the pillows to rest against and framing at the foot, perhaps in case they needed additional leverage? She nearly laughed aloud at the thought.

She turned in his arms, wanting to kiss him, ready, but thought of the words instead.

“I’m here to talk . . . Rumplestiltskin.”

And there was a twitch of a smile on his lips and hers, because how funny was it that they were going through with this? The name, so strange, but he never protested, only encouraged her fantasy. His smile turned impish as she spoke it, and even if she couldn’t control her demeanor enough to be believable for this play-acting, he was quite willing to go along.

“ _How dare you speak my name_ ,” he muttered, perfect and dark.

“I did,” she said, breathy, barely able to get it right. “Now . . . give me the dagger.”

There was no dagger, she had no sword, and how foolish she felt for it all. But he hauled her to him, pressing his body into hers, and she felt him pressing into her stomach.

“Give you the _dagger_?” he said, and she laughed at his implication.

Lines exchanged, easy and hot, he smiled, happy to have her close, a hand holding the back of her head, the other at her waist, and he pressed his mouth to her ear. “Are you ready, Belle?”

Oh, how perfect of him. To ask, to verify her certainty. Her layers bristled around her, perking up at his question. Her sweater and blouse opened their wings, ready for flight. Her skirt, its hem skimming her ankles, was eager to float off. Each turned their attention to him, each hung on her answer.

Those drums, louder than ever before. “I am. Are you?” she asked.

He smiled, nuzzled her hair. “Have you ever wanted something so very, very much?”

And she laughed.

“No rushing,” he reminded her.

“No rushing,” she affirmed.

And his mask returned, not the dealer, not the cruelly passive Mr. Gold, but the character they’d crafted together, this sharp-nosed, conniving trickster that would have his affections returned and rewarded from the heroine he so loved, she just as eager as him.

“I know how to make you give it to me,” Belle said, licking her lips, trying to remember where they’d left off.

“Oh?” he said, breath at her temple.

“Names have power,” she smiled. “ _Rumplestilt-_ ” and he placed a finger over her mouth to keep her from finishing.

“Naughty,” he said, “must keep you quiet, now.” And he kissed her, and when she tried to pull away, tried to get a _rumple_ or _rump_ or even an  _r_ out, he’d mash his lips to hers once more.

He walked them forward, using her as leverage in favor of his cane, which he'd abandoned earlier at the foot of the stairs. He traced her face, fingers over her cheeks and nose when he wasn’t kissing her. She reached up and held onto his lapels, smoothing the fabric with her thumbs, tracing his tie when she got close enough. It took her a moment to realize he’d stopped kissing and touching, and was merely holding and staring at her. She looked up to his eyes, eager and playful.

“Am I sufficiently captured, darling?” he asked.

She nodded.

He released her, and maneuvered over to the bed. He stood with purpose, staring at her with such focus in his eyes. She saw the scene he was laying out. Him behind the bars, she looking at him between the slats.

“Need assistance, again, mistress?” he teased, initiating their imagined scene. The heroine had demanded so much of him, after all.

She stepped forward. At this point she would open the bars with a trembling hand, and lock herself inside, though no bars were clearly present between Belle and Gold now.

“You will not hurt me,” she said, a clear order.

His smile was crooked. “You don’t have the dagger, dearie.”

“But you won’t, will you?” she said, stepping forward, very, very close, and he sat on the bed, his submission to her will over him. Her navel was at his eye level.

This particular position was how the hero and heroine had started their lovemaking, but Belle and Gold had obviously modified it to their needs.

Perhaps the villain would tear at her clothes, or she at his. But, regardless of their game, they were still Belle and Gold, and neither had truly seen one another before now. Well, he'd seen her, but it had been hurried and flashing, an accident, something that may as well have involved headlights and hooves running. But this was slow, deliberate, and careful, and somehow far more terrifying.

He reached up, let his hands rest at her hips, squeezing, mostly feeling the crinkle of her clothing rather than her solidness underneath. He couldn’t help it, he pressed himself forward - his face into her navel, into her clothing, and breathed deeply. Her hands shaking, she brought them up into his hair, fingers tightening around the strands. Her nails scraped both his scalp and nape, and he sighed.

His fingers traced her stitching, gold, _gold_ , and he let his hands sink into the navy blue. When he’d found this sweater in the shop, he’d lifted it to his eye, a careful inspection, and then, in something more vile and promising, he brought it to his nose - it smelled of cardboard and packaging and whatever else had given it no life as it lay on a table waiting for him to find it and repurpose it for the perfume of Belle’s skin. It was perfumed now, heady with her scent, and he smiled with his teeth, letting them nick the fabric.

Breathing deeply, he opened his mouth to her, and bit softly. The hollow of her stomach gave him little purchase, so he moved over to where he felt her hip bone, and mouthed her there. It was strange, his intimacies offered at the barrier of her layers, but the gesture made her eyes sting. Like he recognized those layers were a part of her, and wanted to give them his touch as well.

“And what demands does my mistress have to make of me now?” he asked, continuing their role play. “A tower? An army?”

“No,” Belle said, voice wavering, but she didn’t care. “Nothing so . . . large.”

He rubbed her again. “It’s all large, though, isn’t it? And I can feel that whatever you’re about to ask me is bigger than anything you’ve asked for before. Larger than me, larger than you, larger than this room . . . so large, you can hardly contain it inside that pretty little mouth of yours.”

“Nothing so large,” she repeated again, whispering clumsily, and he rounded his hands down her figure, his fingertips playing under the edge of her sweater. He looked up, caught her eye, and waited for her nod.

When her chin dipped in affirmation, he slid his hands upward, under the sweater, over the blouse, between her layers, peeling away the first in his quest. She lifted her arms up awkwardly, but he stood with confidence and helped her pull the fabric from her arms, head. When standing simply in her blouse, he felt the gentle tremble of her frame, and soothed her by rubbing her arms and shoulders. She looked at him, his eyes, and there was that look again, _are you ready? Is this all right?_ She nodded, and he brought a hand to her throat.

“You’re always hiding from me, mistress,” he said, and in the book _mistress_ was always said with a sneer, but Gold said it with something thick and dripping and heavy. He fingered her collar, the pads of his fingers grazing her skin and she brought a shaking hand up to his chest. She tugged at his tie, hands barely able to complete the task, and he reached up and removed his tie himself in an easy, practiced motion.  

“You want and you want and you _want_ , mistress, but you never stop to think of the _price_ ,” and how had he managed the sing-song so perfectly? Her knees wobbled and her cunt ached from the sound. “All magic comes with a _price_.”

She was wet, very wet, she could feel it, and his hands had only just started drawing circles around her breasts. He traced harder and harder into the crisp fabric, until he drew a thumb hard enough over her nipple to have it pebbling. He smiled at his accomplishment, something half curled and impish, but it only lasted a moment as he drew serious again.

“Belle,” he said, very deliberately, and the imp retreated briefly, his hand grasping her chin, angling her until her eyes met his. “Are you ready, Belle? For me to remove your layers?”

Her hand at his chest clenched, fingers twisting his fabric until she could pretend it was hers. She wanted to rip his away, felt a snarl in her teeth and something very, very hungry and wouldn’t a tearing sound be perfect now? She held his eyes, and saw his own hungry, greedy want, and saw that he was letting it leak in increments, and this was going to be the first true step, and he was waiting only for her approval before he took the permission to devour.

“Yes,” she said. “Take them off.”

He smiled, and ran a finger down the bumpy ridge of her buttons. A conscious act that had her raising an eyebrow, until she returned the gesture, and ran a hand down his own buttons. Her finger ended up hooking into the clasp of his jacket, and he used his other hand to help her undo the closure, holding her gaze as her hands helped him ease the garment from his shoulders where it slouched onto the bed.

The imp returned in his smile, then his eyebrows as they narrowed. With both hands now, he undid her buttons.

With each one he opened, there was a flicker of Gold and villain, back and forth, as she was slowly revealed to him. He parted her fabric, opening up to see that she wore no undershirt, no bra - her breasts had been well hidden in her layers, but ample enough for him to knead and claim when ready. There it was, that awe she had craved, so sincere and plain on his face in the way he stared at her nipples, her stomach, her sternum, the hollow of her throat. He drew up a hand around her waist, he traced the underside of her breast, he ran a rough thumb over her nipple, no more barrier, now.

“Belle,” he said, soft.

He stared at her for long moments. Her hands held his elbows, clenching and unclenching at his own fabric, eager for it to be removed, eager to see him in return. But she couldn’t bring her arms to cross in front of herself to complete the task, so heavy and heady was his gaze. She felt how very red her skin was, and felt herself grow warmer, wetter.

“You must stop calling me that,” she said, back to their lines again, though he’d just used her real name so beautifully. “ _Mistress._ As though all I do is command you.”

“Don’t you?” he asked, regaining his role. “Why are you here, if not to make another callous, _useless_ demand of me?”

Her breathing could barely keep up. “They’re not useless, they help my people.”

“Your people, your people. _Fuck_ your people,” he said, and how he held that word, _fuck_ , for as long as his tongue would allow, staring at her breasts. “You _want_ and you _want_ and you _want_ , _mistress_ , what do _you_ _want?_ ”

“I want,” and she nearly stuttered, “I want to know why you give me such looks - why you do my bidding in the moments when you don’t have to - why you - why you -”

“Why I what, mistress?”

“ - make me feel the way I do.”

“Because, you foolish girl,” he said, pushing off her blouse, and it fell with the same ceremony as his jacket. “You make me feel the same.”

He turned her around, and gobbled up her breasts into his palms, kneading and kneading. He pressed his face into her neck, then moved his hands down to her stomach, caressing upwards until he held her breasts again, then back down and again, and again. Feeling her, rough, hard.

His words made sense, now. He’d described her beauty as _uncharted, seething_. And she felt it! His hands hovered and then gripped, charting her in turn, and she could feel it now, the _seething_ , the way her skin reacted to his touch, trying desperately to connect, desperately to meld.

His hands were dipping lower each time, she realized. Dipping and dipping, then high again, kneading her breasts, pinching and pulling at her nipples, then down again, until he was past her skirt, past her tights, and one hand remained below while the other clamped up onto a breast.

“Always hiding from me, aren't you?” he said, and his hand found his way inside her panties. “My own little puzzle to solve, but I know right where to find you,” and he reached down, fingers rubbing and searching until he found her swollen bud, and she gasped loudly at the touch. “There you are!” he said, hot into her ear, rubbing with more vigor.

Her legs nearly gave out, the muscles twitching uncontrollably at his touch, and her inner walls ached, grasping at nothing and she sobbed from the want it gave her.

“I can feel how wet you are. Wet wet _wet_. You _can’t_ hide from me. I will always find it, how _wet_ you are for me, always.”

These weren’t the lines anymore, he was speaking freely, and she shook so terribly. He opened his hand over her, palm rubbing at her now, fingers cupping her and tempting her seam. He rubbed, hard, and bit, gently, at her neck. His other hand kept kneading her breast, and she felt him rubbing his erection into her backside. She whimpered. Her hands were clasped uselessly in front of her, bent at the elbows and raised, palms touching in prayer over the hand he used to grip her breast. His fingers nearly slipped inside her.

He turned her around, sat her on the bed. Knelt down so he was eye level with her breasts. Her arms were still bent up in prayer, an anxious reaction from all the want surging through her, and though she desperately wanted to remove them, they felt locked in place and dizzy.

He sensed her conundrum. “Belle?” he asked. “Breathe, Belle, breathe.”

She nodded, nuzzling his face when he was close enough. “Do we need to stop?” he asked.

“No, please!” she whimpered, “please, no, I couldn’t bear it if we stopped!”  

“All right,” he said, cupping her face. “Breathe in time with me.”

He took slow breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and she imitated his methods and their count. When she seemed on track, he moved down, soothing her arms and hands with kisses, his hands gripping her back and kneading pressure in time with his mouth, the same rhythm his breath had taken. His soft hair pushed at her collarbone, his nose poked one of her swells, his tongue ran along her forearm, and slowly, slowly, she was able to lower her arms.

He rose up and undid his own buttons, slowly, and she smiled as she saw his slim chest, hairless and tan. He didn’t toss his shirt off, but he opened it for her, allowing her to explore him with gentle and tentative touches, until he leaned into her again.

She wrapped herself around him, cocooning him in her embrace. She sighed and moaned as he took her breasts in turn into his mouth, his whole face pressed to her, and she nuzzled her own nose into his hairline, hiding her noises in him. It was easy to do it this way, pressed so close together. The light in the room showed everything, so when she was ready, she could expose herself in increments, and see all, but right now, with her legs and arms hugging him tight while he sucked at her breasts and stomach, there was a feeling of safety, of peace, of falling into him comfortably.

When touching herself, her breasts, though small, fit well into her own small palms, the feeling _so_ good as her nipples would harden against her own fingers and squeezes. But here, now, with his large palms engulfing her, she arched her back to rub into his touch, whimpering at the way his fingers would scissor around her nipples until he’d squeeze them with precise fingertips or suck them in with his tongue. She was starting to get cold from how much he was licking her skin.

Her hands, free of the previous constriction of her muscles, rubbed at her thighs, up and down, until her skirt was hiked up and her knees exposed. Her eyes were closed, her head back and relaxed, and he helped her bunch her skirt up around her waist. While he mouthed at her stomach and the undersides of her breasts, she reached underneath herself, pulling at her tights, and raised herself up enough to remove them from her waist, her rear, and down her legs.

She looked down at him, blinking her eyes open from her haze that had left them closed so long. He was staring at her legs like he wanted to eat them, and given the way he’d treated her navel and breasts and nipples, he just might. He helped with her tights, pulling and pulling, gentle as he guided the fabric down her calves, and he kissed the top of each foot when he finally had them off of her. Her legs were already parted, but she opened them wider now, and he stared at her center. Watched as she absentmindedly brought a hand to herself.

“This . . . this is how I found you.”

“How you . . . ?” she asked.

And yes, save for the bulk of her blouse and sweaters, this was exactly how he had found her on that day - skirt around her waist, legs wide, sopping wet center exposed with her arousal. She had unwittingly recreated the filthy moment.

“Yes, Belle,” he said, hot, excited. “We’re roleplaying, aren’t we? Finger yourself again, for me, _to me_ , this time. Please, Belle. Please. Please.”

The request had her inner walls contracting, and as she pushed one of her hands inside her panties, the other she placed on his cheek. He stared at her, and she saw how red his face had become, how red all of his skin had become, and wondered if she looked the same.

Villain and heroine seemed to slough away. They were there, they were present, but _they_ were here now, too, Gold and Belle, and both eased away from the lines of the book and into their own sighs and whimpers of fervor.

She started to rub herself, the definition of her knuckles clinging against the wet of her fabric, and his eyes moved down to her center again. She didn’t need to rub long, she was already soaking, but it felt so good to have him watch, and she wanted him to see everything.

“Yes, Belle, _oh_ ,” he said, voice as aching as her cunt. “Fuck yourself for me.”

She pushed two fingers in, mouth opening wide in a pleasurable sigh.

She should go slow, she thought, but she couldn’t. She rocked into herself, from the bend of her fingers to the knuckle, over and over, and he pushed his face into her, so with every out motion she was bumping his nose. He reached up for the top of her panties, pulling down the fabric so he could receive an explicit view of what she was doing to herself. “Yes,” he moaned. “Yes, _Belle_ , yes.”

He reached up, carding a hand through her curls. He nuzzled her hand with his face as it moved, kissing it and licking lightly with his tongue, maneuvering himself so he could see clearly her fingers entering herself.

Her stomach muscles jolted, and the hand that held his face clenched, digging her nails around his ear. She buried her face into his hair, crying out and wincing from the pain of it all, this harsh orgasm pushing through her, the orgasm she was denied so long ago. She felt her muscles fluttering, convulsing, that ache finally satisfied, if only briefly, around her fingers. Her legs twitched around him, closing him in, her curled back cradling him, holding him in place.

She laughed, when it was over. Breathy, small little sucks of air, and he looked up at her, smiling, and laughing in return. A smooth chuckle, happy at the satisfaction they’d shared together, just how very dirty they could be together, and so happy.

Her smile was wide against his forehead when she finally found the courage.

“Eat me,” she said.

He took a few beats to catch his breath. “What?”

“Eat me,” she repeated. “Please.”

He pulled back, stared at her, then nodded, vigorously. “Yes,” he said, “yes,” and moved to remove her panties. It only now occurred to her that she wasn’t ashamed of him seeing her plain white cotton, that nothing in his manner or actions suggested he found them boring or plain. No, he handled them like they were a precious casing, the path to his beloved prize.

He moved out of the cradle of her legs and helped her close them momentarily so he could snake her panties down, and he kissed her feet again as he joined her panties with her tights on the floor.

Her skin was flushed red all over, and he ran his hands over that red as he parted her thighs. He ran his fingertips over the inner skin, but stared hungrily at her center. Her cunt, and he seemed to mouth the word to himself, relishing in the snap of the _n_ and the _t_ before moving in to kiss her, the same way he’d done with her mouth. She gasped as he connected with her, the flat of his tongue overtaking her clit, the rough feel of his buds overtaking the delicate sensitivity of hers.

Oh he devoured her, and she fell back and closed her eyes, losing herself in the sensations of his tongue and teeth and lips on her. Her head rocked back and forth, back and forth until she was able to fall out of it and focus on nothing but the sensation of his mouth on her. She was floating above herself and she opened her eyes - she looked down to see him loving her, loving this body she at times both hated and ignored. He was absolutely devouring her in his love of her body, hands pulling and clawing at her skin, trying to pull her closer.

She could see it all in the bright light of the room. The way his hair fell over her inner thighs, the way his ears were braced on either side by her legs, his way his nose dug into her curls. All so keen and perfect in the light of day, and her stomach muscles were jolting again as he pushed his tongue inside her.

When he drew away, a line of saliva traced itself from him to her the way her arousal had strung away from her glasses, and he stared at her face while moving up a hand. The hand that had been twitching and begging in want for days, at her shoulder, at her elbow, at her hip, finally finding its destination. He reached up, and sank his fingers inside her, claiming her in even, indulgent movements, watching her face as he did.

He leaned forward and sucked on her breast. This was it, the scene in her book that she longed for, finally come to life. She arched her back longer, opened her legs wider. For this was better than the book, the hero hadn’t put his mouth on his heroine’s cunt, hadn’t sucked in her clit or lapped as his hand fucked her. The author hadn’t described the red blooms that would be all over her chest, or the scratch marks, or the sweat, and Belle laughed with what breath she had available from her wide smile.

He pumped his fingers inside her, pumped and pumped and pumped and _fucked_ while her hands clawed the bed. He leaned down and put his mouth on her again, curling his fingers inside her until she shouted and he had to place a hand at her stomach to keep her body from bowing off the bed.  

He stood, lazily, and yanked her skirt off of her, finally leaving her nude. Her body ached, and his must have too, for he was positively shaking, and the author hadn’t mentioned that, how very swollen his lips would be, how crazed he would look while his hands trembled. He touched his own mouth, seemingly unconscious of the act, tugging at his bottom lip before he reached down to cup himself. She saw the muscles of his thin, taut stomach jump in reaction.

He undid his trousers, and there it was, his cock. He cupped it, gently, while staring at her. His expression was dark and he had that grin again, menacing, possessive. It wavered only when he touched himself - it seemed even a tentative stroke was too much for him, and he moved to crawl atop her, the skin of his stomach and chest connecting with hers - sliding, friction, wet, sticky. He was massaging himself into her, mouth running over her face, nipping, and he was mouthing words. She couldn’t understand them at first, and thought to ask him, but soon certain words were clear - _dagger, name, fool, lair_ , he was repeating the scene again, quietly, to himself, to her, while rocking his body over hers.

She felt the rough friction of his pubic hair against hers, and the way his cock connected with her folds, but didn’t enter. She reached up, one hand to his neck, wrapping around it from the front, her palm at the hollow of his throat, and her other hand moved down to his cock, heavy in her grasp. He pushed his hips, gently, rubbing at her clit with his head. His expression was heated, possessive, growling. Hot, heavy eyes, admiration, open mouth, slick skin. It was all so dark, demanding, and it was swallowing her up, and he was about to impale her, and _no!_

She blinked, and blinked again, as something changed.

Suddenly, suddenly she saw it. His hair, framing his face from where he hovered above her. His silk shirt, hanging open and showcasing his slim chest. And she saw it, she saw it.

 _Flowing hair, skimpy silks_. The heroine, so desired by the villain.

He had talked of possession with her, briefly, and she understood, now, understood as it heaved up inside her. Dark and hearty, fangs, claws, crooked teeth, all of it inside her, all of it wanting him, _giggling_ , and suddenly, now, what she really wanted reared itself into view, and it all made sense as their roles reversed so easily in her mind.

“The fool you must take me for,” she said, taking over his murmurs, “To think,” she said, and his eyes widened, “traipsing about . . . as though I'd be completely unawares. I can smell you, _fool_ , you fool. I can taste you. Taste you in the air.”

“Belle?” he said, hushed, haunted.

 _“How dare you speak my name_.”

She flipped them over, what strength she had enough for the maneuver. His mouth opened in surprise, and he grasped for her hips in desperation as she was suddenly the one above him, the one leering over him with her hair framing him, capturing him. His eyes widened, widened, and he smiled.

“How _dare_ you speak my name,” she repeated.

“I did, _Belle_. Now . . .” he dug his fingers into her hips, “ _give me the dagger._ ”

“Give _you_ the dagger? What makes you think I would ever, _ever_ give it to you?” she said, moving her hand down, gripping his cock, and he gasped, moaned.

His voice was pained when he next spoke. “You, _ah!_ You have to give me the dagger.”

“I don’t have to give you anything, _dearie_ ,” she said, and bent down to lick his neck, rubbing her cunt along his shaft.

“I know how to make you give it to me,” he moaned, his face turning into hers, his nose bumping her temple.

“Oh?” she said, holding his gaze.

“Names have power,” he smiled.

“ _Belle_ ,” he said, while she muttered, “ _Rumplestiltskin_ ,” and impaled herself atop him.

They both cried out, and she was positively delighted as he _filled_ her. She rocked her hips, pushed him in deeper, and watched as he was completely lost beneath her, as his eyes fluttered and refused to focus, as his hands shook at her waist. She rolled again, and again. 

His stomach muscles twitched in response to her every bounce, his lean frame bowing underneath her, his neck craned, his hips quaking. He was absolutely beautiful and taut and lost with pleasure. His ribs exposed, and she scratched her nails along them, rolling her hips and filling herself again and again with his rich cock. He felt so perfect and _full_ inside her and she angled herself so her down strokes left her clit rubbing along his beautiful body. 

He was hers, he was _hers_ now, and when she felt him tremble, she pulled on his shoulders, pulled him up into her, pulled his mouth to hers, so when he came, she swallowed every bit of it, his cock spilling into her and his scream falling inside her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I made myself sick trying to make this chapter perfect)
> 
> (so if there are mistakes)
> 
> (which there definitely are)
> 
> ( . . . I'm aware)


	6. Getting Started

The windows of the clock tower used to be boarded up, a long time ago. Belle had taken the initiative to remove their boards, and paid with her own money to reinstall glass. The mayor’s committee had no interest in the project themselves, so while there was still much to be done up here, Belle had taken care of the windows. One at a time, a month at time. Didn’t bother to seek permission, just had the work commissioned herself. When it was all done and completed, she stood happy at the clock tower’s center, the points of light from each restored window meeting at her feet. To be there midday or afternoon was to be overwhelmed with light, harsh on the eyes and unable to truly enjoy it, but sunrise and sunset were ideal.

Perhaps, ages ago, the idea of leading tours up here was her goal, maybe to earn some extra money, maybe to just make the beauty available to everyone. But Belle was allowed some greed, wasn’t she? The tower was hers; one had to pass her apartment to reach it, and she didn’t need Storybrooke’s curious passing by the place she slept at night.

She nestled into the tiny armchair she had up here, in front of her favorite window, the one that oversaw the entire town, the one directly above main street, cutting the town in half and centering her above it all. She’d placed the chair dangerously close to the edge, her gentle act of rebellion every morning, as the wrong step or tip of the chair could send her down to her peril. Such silly acts of defiance; restoring windows, sitting too close to them. They were large things, the windows, starting only inches from the floor and ending as high as they could go before the ceiling angled upward to house the clock. They each opened at the center, little glass french doors revealing the town to her. She tapped a hand along her favorite window’s frame where it hung open, admiring its glass, trusting its edges. Leroy had done truly beautiful work.

Small things had escaped her, she realized now. Leroy had done the work, but Mr. Gold had helped her set the whole thing up. He’d helped with other things, too. Her apartment, obviously, as she paid rent to him. But other things, small things. Alerting the town of her book drives. Letting her know when her favorite specials at Granny’s were available. Holding an umbrella open for her when she forgot her own. Small things.

Before her, the midnight blues of early morning gave way to the pales of sunrise. She was huddled into her very favorite sweater, a large and bulky russet affair, chunky knit with arms too long and a swimming turtleneck and a hem that covered her rear when she stood. Normally she paired it with her other layers: pajama pants, t-shirt, a second sweater if she was cold. But she wasn’t cold, and her skin tingled in a way it never had before, so she forgoed other clothing altogether. She huddled naked under her favorite sweater, legs pulled up skin to skin against her chest as she pulled her sweater over them, hem skimming her feet as well as her rear now. She wiggled her legs, caressing her knees against her breasts, and smiled.

In her hands she cocooned her morning coffee, using her sleeves as protection against the hot mug. She inhaled the cup deeply, smiling at its rich scent, smiling at the memory of other _rich_ scents, and peered over the mug’s edge at the sun as it started its ascent. Could anyone see her up here? She doubted anyone ever bothered to look up. And there was no one she could see, anyway. The only light before her was Granny’s in the distance, preparing itself for the morning crowd. Gold’s shop remained stark and black, empty and awaiting its master. He occupied her thoughts, though, open and bright and such a welcome memory. She wiggled her legs again, and ducked her head against her knees, smiling into the bones.

Oh, how he looked after she made him come. Wilted from exertion, panting, he had just enough erection left for her to grind down on him for a few more thrusts of his hips for her to find completion as she collapsed atop him. He’d wrapped his arms around her, huffed his breath into her hair, and cooed words of sweetness and honey as soft, smiling sobs had escaped her. They’d done it. Her legs trapping him and her hair framing him and his hands wandering her back in languid satisfaction and they’d done it, they’d done it.

Her mug was cooler now, and she took a long, indulgent sip. She closed her eyes, rearranged her hands so one could maintain the mug’s handle while her other hand was able to rub her leg along the front calf. She opened her legs a little, just a little, enough that, through the bulk of her sweater, she could bring her hand to her middle, and apply light pressure. Just a whisper of the feeling she experienced before.

The sun seemed to rise so much faster than it set. Already pinks and purples were all over the sky, the night completely gone, and she saw a figure rounding one of the buildings below. A gentle figure, sauntering as much as a man with a cane could saunter. That hair of his, shoulder length and lovely, swaying in time with his steps and the hint of a morning wind. The pressure at her center increased.

She set down her mug, half empty and cooling rapidly, crouching so it would rest at the window’s edge. She snaked a hand inside her sweater, finding her folds tender and wet. She couldn’t quite see his face at this distance, but she could see his hands rising up, unlocking his shop, resting his cane in the crease of his elbow as he set to work. She rubbed herself, gently, remembering those hands, his face. They were lovers, now.

He had asked her to touch herself to him, to the sight of him, the thought of him. He’d approve of this, of her touching herself in her clock tower as she watched him, and she felt more the villain than ever - watching his heroine while she’s completely unaware, going about her business, steady to her course, no idea of the creature above, admiring her steps, longing for her lines - and Gold’s lines were so beautiful.

She had real life to pull from, now. _Real_ fantasies, memories, her own experience to indulge in when the urge overcame her. She rocked her hips, gentle, remembered his fingers, his _mouth_.

How his come had dripped down her legs, she’d never forget. She had rolled off him once he was soft again, wiping at her face and shivering as a sheen of sweat had left her chilled in their giant, sun-filled room. After several moments he’d crawled down the bed, clumsily, lazily, and parted her thighs once more, maneuvering so her body was his pillow, his head on her hip, his hips by her head. He ran his hands from her sides to her buttocks and thighs, caressing up and down, until he noticed his come seeping from her. And he’d leaned down and licked at it, making her shake, making her eyes grow wide from how bold and perfectly filthy he was. His own hips, so near her mouth, held their own temptation, and though he was still soft from his orgasm, she’d taken him in her mouth, gently fishing for him from his trousers again, and he’d jumped at her daring. She’d sucked on him gently, lightly, until after long, long moments of gentle sucking on both their parts he’d begun to swell again, and cant his hips in small, timid motions.

He’d loved going down on her, and she on him. When she’d made her demand for him to _eat her_ , she’d refrained from mentioning that she’d never actually experienced cunnilingus before. His seed seeping from her, he’d inserted his fingers again, but instead of fucking her, he merely applied light pressure to her upper walls, a gentle stroke against what she assumed was her g-spot. She did so now, in her armchair, in her window, remembering the way the curve of his body had looked between her thighs, and the way he’d tasted between her teeth. He was deliberate, methodical, gentle, taking his time to wind her up again. Licking occasionally, not devouring like before. She tried to mimic his motions, taking what she could without gagging. _This_ she had done before, had always enjoyed, though she hadn’t considered herself terribly talented at the act.

When they came again, she first, then him, several, long moments after, it was more violent than before, nearly painful. The memory, while she watched him now from her clock tower, had her body singing quickly, had her finding release right away, and she sighed while relaxing back into the bulk of her sweater. She unfurled her legs and left them welcome to the chill morning air, her body cooling from her exertions and memories.

He had held her after that. Tight, arms circling her snug, head nuzzling her hip, eyelashes fluttering at her stomach. They slept, long and heavy, and when she woke he was hovering above her, smoothing her hair from her face, his shirt still open and cocooning around them both.

“Do you see now, Belle? How very beautiful you are?” he’d asked.

She’d crinkled her nose, but he had seen her seriousness there. “I’m not,” she’d said.

“This,” he had said, cupping her face, bringing his mouth to her forehead. “This is beauty, darling Belle. We are beauty, when we’re together.”

The clock signaled the hour, its ringing loud and abrupt and she laughed, covering her ears and ducking into the neck of her sweater. Her legs dangled from her chair and she swung them in time to the chime of the clock, before rising and pushing the chair back so she could close her little glass doors to their view of Storybrooke, to the man she was so wild about. Her arousal, messy on her hand, smudged the frame as she clasped it shut, and the sight left her quivering, no longer embarrassed or ashamed. She gathered up her mug and rushed down the steps back to her apartment, giggling at the cool of the morning air against her bare legs.

Her giggles ended once she was in her apartment. She could see it - with her back against the door and the stretch of the hallway before her, all the way into her closet. The black dress. She had moved it out, earlier, reaching for something else, and had forgotten to hide it again. Or maybe she had placed it out so she could give it another shot, now that she felt so very different about herself.

That difference in her, so new and blooming, blinked as all the old ugly feelings reared their heads towards her as she strode towards the dress.

Could she wear it now, now that she was the type of person who could wander her apartment, her clock tower, in nothing more than an oversized sweater? Being alone was one thing, all her progress had grown with her alone, or in Gold’s arms. But in public, in that strange and watchful eye of the public, Belle felt her progress slow like molasses, slow like a sloth. She didn’t need it to hurry, it was slow because it was the last thing on her mind, other things mattered more - and how wonderful that was, to have all those things that mattered! Her relationship with Gold, her relationship with herself.

She could try it on, again. She could get it tailored to truly fit, the way Gold had suggested of her layers. She could get a new dress altogether.

She held it up. Simple thing it was - tiny, sleek, sexy. Years hung on this dress, years of trying it on and feeling things as black as the fabric every time she looked at herself. Surely, after everything, she could look at it and feel something different, better, brighter, now. The dress was _sex_ , but she didn’t feel _sex_ when she looked at it, and she’d been feeling _sex_ for days now. Happy, free, eyes closed and lips smiling and _happy_. And this dress, simple as it was, simply didn’t give her that.

“You just don’t make me feel good about myself,” she said to the dress, and tossed it in her bin, saving only the hanger.

She walked the hanger back to the closet, smiling at how light it felt. She held it up, imagined a dotted line being drawn from it, creating a new dress, one she would find someday, someday, one that would make her feel right and happy. It would come, it would fill that dotted line, and when it did, the hanger would be just as light when she held it, she was sure.

She dressed. She was tempted to wear the navy sweater he’d given her again, but it was too soon for that. She wondered if he’d give her other gifts, offer a greater variety of keepsakes from him that she could wear, and remember his touch. Digging through her closet, she found the closest thing to _gold_ she could wear - a peach sweater, with a gentle v shape, and paired it over her blouse and a brown wool skirt.

Going about her day, she felt lighter than before. Like the dress had carried weight over her even when she couldn’t see it, something invisible that let its claws hang down from the ceiling, seeping through her apartment and down into the library, picking at her pores and crawling into her thoughts as that dark and awful reminder of its existence, and how afraid she was to wear it. That influence was gone now, she simply didn’t have the room for it.

The lightness made her day feel brighter, faster. When lunchtime rolled around, she strolled to his shop with a smile, claws gone, weight gone, black dress gone.

To her surprise, the front of the shop was locked. She stepped back, checking for the sign, and sure enough it read a decidedly unwelcome _closed_. She’d been too caught up in her thoughts to notice.

She rounded towards the back, steps a bit unsure as she’d never gone this way before. The door was slightly ajar when she arrived, and it all seemed too coincidental for her liking. She touched the knob tentatively, and listened carefully. She heard nothing, but didn’t enter yet, instead leaning in close to peek through the small gap of the open door. And there he was, on the cot, lean frame reclining, eyes closed, mouth open, face calm and expressionless. His hair rest around him in a halo and his legs were slightly parted, trousers open, hand stroking himself, and she bit back her gasp.

He meant for this, surely. Her face heated up, and she folded her arms. If he had planned for her to walk in on him, he had another thing coming. She would enjoy watching him, she decided; enjoy watching him yield to his own flesh until he spilled, until every spent drop would be accounted for.

She wondered if he was aware of the way his back arched when a stroke started to overwhelm him, the same way she’d overwhelmed him before with her dips and thrusts. The memory, and the sight before her now, had her growing hot between her legs. They’d talked about this, being _sexual people_ , and given that they’d both touched themselves today, so freely, so uninhibited, and she so longed for him again, perhaps he was right in his analyses of themselves.

She wished she could see his chest now, and remembered how very beautiful it was, how the planes of him were so smooth to her touch, the way his taut belly reacted to every jolt of pleasure, how his head had turned and displayed his neck, exposing the lovely, long line of him in full.

Instead he was quite covered, even his large hand only exposed his cock in blinks as it stroked and stroked. He cupped his balls through his trousers and she felt that wasn’t fair, she wanted to see them, until she remembered that when he’d found her, she’d been just as covered by the fabric of her panties, however wet with arousal they’d been.

And it struck a thought in her.

One that had bothered her then, one that bothered her now. He was still so covered up. Legs, arms, ass, back - she hadn’t seen them.

He’d seen all of her.  

The thought made the scene before her blur, and she chewed on her lip until she heard his groan. She looked up, seeing his jolt, that signature sign of his pleasure reaching its peak. He pinched the head of his cock as he did, and she felt cheated again, not seeing the spray of his pleasure. He rose, panting, and turned, leaning over the cot while his feet connected to the floor. He deposited his mess into a tissue, and she decided to make her presence known, opening the door slowly.

“I saw that,” she said, going for bold, but sounding breathless instead.

He chuckled, chuckled like he’d been aware of her presence all along, but she could see a blush on his cheeks and neck. “I don’t mind it if you see,” he said, and it was her turn to blush.

“Did you want me to?” she asked.

“Not necessarily. It wasn’t planned.”

“You know I always come by at this time,” she said with a quirk of her brow.

“It . . . wasn’t planned,” he said again, a dark, secret smile. “I haven’t offended your sensibilities, have I?”

She closed the door behind her, gently, leaning back into it, and scrunched up her face at him, laughing softly, shaking her head. “Why no, catching you like that was,” and what had he called it before? “Arresting. _Bewitching._ ”

He chuckled again in turn, the sound raspy and panting, his breath still not quite recovered, and he ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a heavy breath. The sight was a wonder, truly, him so precise and put together up top, so disheveled and wicked below.

“Were you thinking of me?” she asked, quiet, and he nodded.

“Of our night - well - _day_ , together. I’ve never . . . loved someone, like that.”

She grew warm at his phrasing, stared down at her feet. “Me neither. As you know.”

They were quiet a moment, and as he moved to finally right himself back into sorts, she stepped forward.

“Wait,” she said. “I want to see you.”

His smile wavered, but he paused his actions long enough for her to come close and kneel before him. He was already spent, she knew, but she took him in hand anyway, and his face twitched.

“I know . . . from experience . . . it doesn’t take you _terribly_ long to recover,” she said, trying her very best to look coy, and his face twitched again.

“Well. Long enough,” he said. “We were in that bed a _very_ long time.”

“Do we have enough time before our lunch hour is up, you think?” she asked, cocking her head and smiling.

But he rose, tucking himself away quickly and then reaching down and helping her rise as well. He placed her in front of him, hands on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing her in circles.

His face said something she didn’t want to hear, eyebrows furrowed and lips drawn down. She spoke before he could. “You don’t want to?”

His face twitched, again, again. She was starting to dislike the motion.

“ . . . no.”

Her mouth opened and closed, no sound for a moment. “No?”

“No.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to process his meaning, feeling stupid suddenly, but before darker feelings could crop up, feelings of being used and done with, he cracked a smile.

“I don’t like, how do you say? _Quickies_.”

She looked up. “Oh?”

“If we’re going to indulge, Belle, I like to take my time. As _you_ know,” he repeated, smiling. “I’d, well, I’d like to have you over to my place tonight.”

“ . . . _oh?”_

“For something proper. Dinner. Movie, maybe. Well. No movie,” his smile curled. “Sex.”

She curled in return. “You don’t want a quickie, you want . . . a longie?”

He blurted out a boisterous laugh at that, and she laughed back.

“I want more of this . . . this thing we have,” and he huffed out another long breath, another quick laugh, but it sounded caught in his throat.

“You still need to catch your breath,” she said. “Sit down.”

And before he could protest she took a seat on the cot, and he joined her.

She held his hand as his panting slowed, interlacing their fingers together and marveling at the way his hand shook. He kept glancing up at her, then down at his feet. It wasn’t like him.

“Are you, are you all right?” she asked.

“Belle,” he said, licking his lips. “There’s something in me that . . . wants you, very much.”

“You, uh, had me,” she narrowed her brows. “We’ve _had_ each other.”

“Oh, no,” he shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s,” and the way he was breathing, the way he was looking at her, the way he was moving his thumb down to her pulse point. He’d done that so many times now, she wondered if she should continue to pretend not to notice.

“I’ve had these daydreams, Belle. That I’m taking you out. Spoiling you. Buying you clothes, see, dressing you up. Like you’re a doll. My little doll. But you probably wouldn’t appreciate that, would you?”

“Um,” was all she could say for a moment, and his hand squeezed hers, but the move didn’t seem conscious.

“Well, I,” she started. “I wouldn’t mind . . . if, I don’t know, if you really wanted that.” The man was so stylish, it’d be a dream to be dressed by him. As long as he kept her arms covered. And her legs. And nothing was too tight, or too low, or too high, or, or,

“I mean,” she stuttered, “I’m pretty picky, but-”

“That’s not what I want,” he said.

She looked up at him, and he ran his hand through his hair again. “It’s this fantasy, but it’s not what I really want. The fantasy was bred of . . . what I want is you, _you_ , it’s this strange feeling, that I want to make you _mine_. I don’t want to control you, tell you what to do, or what to wear, mind. It’s this, this feeling, of want, of _oh!_ Belle, am I making any sense?”

“Not really,” she smiled, encouragingly, baffled by him but trying desperately to understand.

He tried to explain how the urges worked. How something violent and shaking could translate itself into a caress of her cheek instead, or the passing of a book, or the opening of a door. The small gestures, when well received, would stoke his urgency, make him long for more small gestures, gestures he could amplify later in his bed, with her underneath him, with she above him.

“Possession,” he said, like the word was a key to whatever it was he was trying to unlock. “I don’t know how else to describe it. It consumes me when I look at you. When I touch you. I _want_  you, Belle. The way our villain looked at his heroine, longed for her, but the way he was also driven mad by that desire for, for wanting. Of wanting to give himself, as well. I know that, Belle, I feel it. When I’m with you. I’ve felt it for so long, ever since I found you, that day.”

“Since then?” Belle said. “I think you’ve felt it longer.”

And his hand stopped shaking, and he raised his brows at her.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “of all the little things you’ve done for me, over the years. The favors, the tips. I thought it was regular friendship, like any other. But you don’t do those things for anyone else, not without a price. And you’ve never demanded a price from me. You’ve simply . . . given.”

He nodded, slowly.

“Like the villain . . . he always abided her summons, even when she didn’t have the dagger. I have no dagger, nothing you could want -”

“- I want _you -”_

“- and that’s exactly it, nothing but myself. I can understand that, I think. That want. Though, why it’s _me_ you want, I don’t quite understand,” she finished with a smile.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then nuzzling it with his nose. “Do you feel it then, too?”

“More than you know,” she said, and he caught her lips.

That evening, she gasped at the sight of his house, honestly gasped. Its exterior was breathtaking, and its interior even more so. An expansive Victorian, mysterious and handsome. She had thought of her clock tower as the most magical place in the world, but now it had certainly met its rival.

When he led her through to his dining room, they passed it in favor of the kitchen, and when they arrived she saw why. His dining room, so formal and traditional, was arranged to set its occupants respectable lengths apart. In the kitchen, at the island where he’d arranged their plates, they were placed so close together she wondered if their knees would touch. She laughed at this bit of silliness from him.

His setting, so informal, was nothing like his meal. Lamb with mint, asparagus with a dark sauce, red Bordeaux - its extravagance made sense given her host. Belle sometimes felt embarrassed and awkward at events of luxury, and though his dinner had her blushing, it made her appreciate their seating all the more. Like he’d premeditated on what would make her comfortable, and decided drawing back the curtain on his dishes and the work he’d used to prepare the meal would do the trick. It’d certainly worked. She gripped her wine glass with relish, and trailed a foot up his calf.  

“Did you honestly make this all yourself?” she asked.

He sipped his wine, gave her that impish smile. “When will you learn,” he said, tapping his glass lightly against the island. “I like to _indulge_.”

She laughed softly through her nose. “We could go out, next time,” she said. “Out on the town. Granny’s. _Indulge_ in cheeseburgers. Share a shake with two straws. Hold hands in a booth and everything.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t mind being seen with me?”

Her mouth gaped at him, truly surprised. She’d expected him to call her ridiculous again, comparing burgers to lamb. “Of course not,” she said, then, risking upsetting him, “do you really think so little of yourself?”

“Oh, no, that’s not it,” he said smiling into his wine. “Just . . . worried for you, that’s all.”

She had no response to that, baffled at his meaning.

He rose, collected their dishes, and didn’t bother with polite rejection when she offered to help. They cleaned together, hands connecting in the soapy water.

When done, he rounded her, arms slinking slowly around her, trailing up her shoulders then down her waist.

“Are you ready for dessert?”

“Yes,” she said. “What is it?”

“Your cunt,” he said, pressing the words into her ear.

She blushed very red, but lifted her chin to him. “And your cock,” she returned, just managing not to stutter.

He chuckled, turned her around in his arms. “Shall I say the words?”

The words, the words. Their book. It was tempting to say yes, tempting to relive all they’d done again and again, relive these characters she loved so much again and again. But she swallowed, her throat constricting thick against her answer.

“No.”

It was his turn to blink rapidly. She wondered if he was swarmed with the same dark feelings he’d given her in the face of that terrible word he’d uttered at his shop earlier. As he had done for her before, she rescued him with a smile.

“I love our heroine, our villain. But I’d like it to be us, now. Just us.”

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

“I like myself, when I’m with you. So tonight I’d like to be . . . myself.”

The way he looked at her gave her his unspoken concern. That same concern he’d voiced when she’d forgone her glasses, that fragile suggestion that she shouldn’t make changes for him, rest the weight of her worth on him.

“Please,” she said. “Listen. You make me feel like more, the more I've been wanting,” she touched his chin, his lips. “Why pretend that knowing you hasn’t affected my view of myself? Obviously one shouldn’t place their self worth in another’s opinion - but it certainly doesn’t hurt that you seem to like me so much.”

“I like you _very_ much.”

“And I like you. Does that help you with _your_ armor and self-perception?”

“That my feelings are returned, absolutely,” he said.

“Then, please, may I see you?”

“ . . . see me?”

“You got to see me completely out of my layers. But it definitely did _not_ escape my attention that you never took off all of yours.”

The thought had been haunting her ever since she realized that he’d only opened his shirt to her when her limbs had started locking. He had her breathe in time with him, and partake of his chest with her gentle, demure touches to help calm her - it had all been to calm her. But had she been more courageous, more self-assured, would he have ever exposed himself to her? Did he truly think he could get away with such a thing?

“Gold,” she said, and she had to work past her own diffidence to get the words out. “ _Why so many layers?”_

He blanched.

“Belle, I . . .” and he gripped her shoulders, unable to get the words out, unable to explain.

“You don't want me to see you. Why didn't you say anything? You were so ... forward with me, I assumed you were ... okay, _more_ than okay with . . . being seen, yourself.“

“I’m old, Belle. I’m crippled.”

“You’re beautiful, don’t you see?”

He’d gone down on her, and she’d gone down on him, at the same time! But she’d been nude and sensual - his body, pressed to hers, moving against hers, hadn’t given her the luxury of skin against skin. His fabric had swayed with her, and she meant to remedy that.

“I love the way you look. Your face alone is . . . ! Oh, your nose, your jaw, your hair, the lines around your mouth when you speak, your _mouth_ . . . you already know that your body type is _exactly_ what I prefer. And you’ve seen . . . you’ve _felt_ . . . how aroused you make me.”

“The words,” he said. “The book arouses you.”

She shook her head. “It all does. _You_ arouse me. How _dare_ you ask me if I feel beautiful, insist that I'm beautiful, if you won't let me say the same.”

He ducked his head into her, pressing his mouth to her forehead. “You want to . . . ?”

“Yes. Of course. Please,” she said. “Let me see you. Touch you.”

He nodded, reluctantly. “Yes. All right.”

She pulled back, looked to his eyes. She didn’t want to force him, or humiliate him. They’d had enough of that, surely. When he took her hands and kissed each palm, nodding again, she felt ready to tackle his buttons. She slipped his tie down, fingers trembling just as they had before, and he helped her just as he had before. She rest his tie on the counter, then reached for his buttons, one by one, undoing them slowly, with reverence.

She kissed his chest once it was exposed, and he closed his eyes. She eased his shirt and jacket off all at once, gathering them gently in her hands and resting them on the counter. He was so, so handsome. She ran her hands up his arms, unable to understand why he saw his firm muscles in such ill-favor, why his taut frame held no love from him.

Perhaps it was the same with him that it was with her - he felt less, because he’d been seen as less. His previous partners had rushed love with him, her previous partner took no time to truly look at her, leaving them both feeling like there was nothing lovely to bother looking at. So she looked now, she looked.

He had already eased her sweater over her head and started tackling her own buttons. They had been so heated before, she wanted gentle love, now.

Her hand trembled near his navel, fingers brushing the skin just above his trousers, and he hissed. She took her time undoing his belt, easing down his zipper. Tempted to reach in and cup him, she waited until he allowed her to remove his pants, socks, shoes, and silk boxers, until he stood nude in front of her.

He didn’t make it easy for her view him, so busy was he trying to remove the rest of her layers, but she stilled his hands on her buttons, on her skirt, and looked at him.

Her mouth was watering, she was hot between her thighs. “You make all of me wet,” she whispered.

He blinked, swallowed at her meaning, and resumed his efforts. When she stood naked before him, she marveled at the way his cock had completely risen, as eager for her as she was for him.

“It’s very cold in here,” she smiled, noticing that his skin had pebbled along with hers.

Before he could respond with a witty retort, she pushed on his shoulders, gently, easing themselves to the floor, and he obliged, cringing slightly at the cool of the tile, but excited by her game. The tile was cold but her hands were hot, and she traced his frame, starting at his chest and working down to his legs. Oh, how she loved looking at him, loved touching him.

“May I?” she asked, and he nodded fervently.

She knelt down, never minding the cool of the tile beneath her, and gripped his cock in her hand. She eased her palm and fingers down him slowly, a smooth motion, and marveled at the way he leaked from the tip. She touched his arousal with her tongue just briefly before enveloping her mouth over him, opening her jaw slowly, welcoming him into her mouth with care. Suckling on him she felt such _power_ , cupping his balls and savoring his languid, drunk moans. She bobbed her head, slowly, taking her time. She loved the taste of him.

When he made an anxious noise, she looked up, worried she’d done something wrong. He tugged at her, pulled at her, looking pained.

“Come, here, come into my lap,” he said, reaching under her arms and helping her move. “Take over me again, ride me. Go at your own pace. Take your pleasure from me.”

She nodded, allowed him to gather her up into his arms. He kissed her chest and collarbones when she came near, gripped her hips, dug his thumbs into her hipbones. As she lowered herself down, she held his stare, and her mouth grew agape as she was suddenly _filling up_ with him again and _oh!_ He felt perfect.

“This,” she said, breath messy, “is this what you wanted?”

“ _Mine_ ," was all he grunted, hips rising to meet her, hands reaching up to pull down on her shoulders and bring her closer, and she seemed to understand.

“Only if I can have you, too.“

“ _Yes_ ,” he groaned. “I’m yours, Belle!”

“We, we are beauty,” she said, repeating his words, shaky, trying, “ _we_ are beauty, when we’re together.”

When spent, they collapsed onto the tile together, panting and sweaty. It was all so terribly uncomfortable, and all Belle could do was smile.

He stroked her hair and back, flexing his leg occasionally and she lifted up to ask him if he was in pain, but he waved off her worry. He held her face, ran his thumbs over her cheekbones and jaw.

“Does this mean you’re no longer interested in role play?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to reject that notion right away, but laughed instead.

“Do you like David Bowie?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”

She pursed her lips as her smile grew too wide, and she blushed deeply. “Do you like _Labyrinth_?”

He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Well. I think I remember it. Bae loved it as a boy.”

“I loved it too . . . it’s, eh. Um. Just a thought.”

“I’m in for something strange, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Most certainly.”

He shook his head at her, then pushed her down, tumbling atop her and having the audacity to tickle her. The action took her by such shock and surprise that she found herself screaming, albeit with a wide, open smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! Suckers! This was a Labyrinth tribute all along!
> 
> Just kidding. I will be forever embarrassed by those lines.
> 
> This fic is nearly all wrapped up, just a brief epilogue to go. I'd feel guilty making you wait a week for such a short chapter, so I’ll post the epilogue in a day or two. Or three. We’ll see how these two want to conclude things :)


	7. We're There

He could see her ankles.

And part of her calves. She wore a midi-length skirt, fitted, showing off her rear and the shape of her thighs and the cut of her knees as she walked. It was black, and sleek, and lovely, and it left his lips parted and his breath quick.

Her wrists, too, were flashing occasionally with the peek of her blouse. She’d left it unbuttoned at her hands and folded up once, so when she reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear there it was, the curve of bone before it connected with her wrist and her tiny, sweet fingers, the ones that had gripped his hair so tightly as he’d moved his mouth over her body and over her lips.

He smiled.

She was so lovely, his Belle. He felt a funny sense of pride at how very lovely she was, even though he had nothing to do with it. He simply basked in her glow, let it warm his own features and allow him to shed his own layers. He removed his jacket, now, seeing how bold she was in her new skirt. A simple thing, but so momentous for her.

He watched from his window as she crossed the street to his shop, an exchange happening between her and the Lucas girl. Both smiled, Belle muttering a clear _thank you_ and continuing on her way, a smile beaming from her from the happy compliment she’d clearly just received. Did others notice the change in her too, then? The tall brunette had her own legs showing off nearly up to her buttocks, but from the way Belle carried a bounce in her step, though she was clearly covered to mid-calf, she may as well have been just as exposed and loving every bit of it.

His Belle, his lovely, lovely Belle. He removed his vest, now, joining it on the counter with his jacket. And his cufflinks, folding and rolling the edges of his shirt up his forearms. She _had_ mentioned loving his forearms. And other parts of him, but this was the only bit he felt comfortable exposing. It made him feel bold as well, made him understand her smile as she entered his shop. He rounded the counter to greet her, one hand at his cane, the other casually placed in his pocket, and he returned her beam when she saw his own bit of exposure.  

She started to speak, ask him questions, tell him stories, and the words were smooth, easy, readily delivered. He loved her voice, its lilt, its honey. He loved her wrists, her calves, the movement she made with her hands. He loved the laughs she emitted from him, the red in his cheeks, the copper he tasted when he bit his lip too hard from the look of her. He loved her color, her sound, her scent, her taste, her touch,

“I love you,” he said.

She stopped her story, breath caught somewhere in the middle, hands somewhere in the air. She lowered them to his skin, those exposed forearms, rubbing them gently.

“I love you, too.”

He remembered the days of feeling hollow, of hiding inside a case of fabric, crouching and cowering somewhere inside where no one could reach him, where arms would have to scrape and dig to get anywhere near him. But being with Belle had made him grow large, tall, full, _big_ , fill out his own layers so his hands and feet and worth could peek out again.

It had been a funny feeling, like screaming, screaming and screaming for so long, but muffled up completely and with no one to hear. But now that someone _could_ hear, wanted to hear, and he wanted to hear her, there was no need to scream.

A gentle curl of the lips would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has finally wrapped! Thank you so much for all your wonderful, wonderful comments. It's been as much fun to receive them as it's been to write this story, you are all truly amazing. Thanks for connecting with me on this smutty, silly, sweet journey.


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